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POPULAR   NOVELS 

BT 

MRS.   MARY  J.   HOLMES. 


TEMPEST  AND  SUNSHINE. 
ENGLISH  ORPHANS. 
HOMESTEAD  ON  HILLSIDE. 
'LENA  RIVERS. 
MEADOW  BBOOK. 
DORA  DEANE. 
COUSIN  MAUDE. 
MARIAN  GREY. 
EDITH  LTLE. 
DAISY  THOKNTON  (New). 


DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 
HUGH  WORTHINGTON. 
CAMERON  PRIDE. 
ROSE  MATHER. 
ETHELYN'S  MISTAKE. 
MILLS  ANK. 
EDNA  BBOWNTNG. 
WEST  LAWN. 
MILDRED. 
FORBEST  HOUSE  (New). 


Mrs.  Holmes  is  a  peculiarly  pleasant  and  fascinating 
writer.  Her  books  are  always  entertaining,  and  she 
has  the  rare  faculty  of  enlisting  the  sympathy 
and  affections  of  her  readers,  and  of  hold- 
ing their  attention  to  her  pages  with 
deep  and  absorbing  interest." 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume.    Price  $1.50 

each.     Sold  everywhere,  and  sent/re* 

by  mail  on  receipt  of  price, 


G.  W.  CAELETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
New  York. 


FORKEST   HOUSE. 


BY 

MRS.   MARY    J.  HOLMES, 


AUTHOR  OP 


TEMPEST  AND  SUNSHINE.— 'LENA  RIVERS.— DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 
MARIAN  OBEY.— ENGLISH  ORPHANS.— HUGH  WORTHINGTON.— 
MILBANK.— ETHELYN'S  MISTAKE.— 
EDNA  BBOWNING,  ETC.,  ETC. 


"Longueoille. — What!  are  you  married,  Beaufort! 
Beaufort. — Ay,  as  fast 

As  words,  and  hands,  and  hearts,  and  priest, 
Could  make  us."  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHEB. 


1STEW    YORK: 

G.    JV.    Carle  fan   &    Co.,   Publishers, 

MA.DISON     SQUARE. 
MDCCCLZXIX. 


COPYRIGHT,      1879, 

BY 
DANIEL     HOLMES. 

[All  RiyJits  Reserved.] 


SAMUEL  STODDER,  TROTT 

STEBEOTTPER,  PIUWTINO  AND  BOOK-BINDING  Co. 

90  ANN  STREET,  N.  Y.  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Two  LETTERS  .............................      7 

n.  DR.  MATTHEWSON  ..........................     10 

IH.  THE  MOCK  MARRIAGE  ......................     19 

IV.  THE  FORREST  HOUSE  .......................     27 

V.  BEATRICE  BELKNAP  ........................     37 

VI.  MOTHER  AND  SON  ..........................     44 

VII.  JOSEPHINE  .................................     56 

Vin.  EVERARD  .................................     61 

IX.  THE  RESULT  .............................     67 

X.  HUSBAND  AND  WIFE  .......................     84 

XL  AFTER  Two  YEARS  ........................     90 

XII.  COMMENCEMENT  ......  .  ....................     95 

XHI.  THE  RECEPTION  ...........................  100 

XIV.  Two  MONTHS  ..............................  108 

XV.  THE  HOUSE  OF  CARDS  BEGINS  TO  FALL  .......  Ill 

XVI.  THE  HOUSE  OF  CARDS  GOES  DOWN  ...........  122 

XVII.  THE  NEXT  DAY  ............................   129 

XVHI.  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  ....................   135 

XIX.  THE  JUDGE'S  WILL  .........................  142 

XX.  THE  HEIRESS  ..............................  150 

XXI.  A  MIDNIGHT  RIDE  .........................   160 

XXII.  THE  NEW  LIFE  AT  ROTHSAY  ................  166 

XXIH.  BEE'S  FAMILY  .............................  176 

XXIV.  IN  THE  SUMMER  ...........................    196 

XXV.  MRS.  FLEMING'S  BOARDERS  .................  203 

XXVI.  JOSEPHINE'S  CONFIDENCE     ..........  .......  212 

XXVH.  EVENTS  OF  ONE  YEAR  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE  .  218 

XXVIH.  SOMETHING  DOES  HAPPEN  ..................  225 


BS72091 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

MBS.  J.  E.  FORREST  ........................  232 

How  ROSSIE  BORE  THE  NEWS  ...............   240 

XXXL  MRS.  FORREST'S  POLICY  ...................  243 

XXXII.  WHAT  THE  PEOPLE  SAID  AND  DID  ...........  252 

XXXIII.  EVERARD  FACES  IT  ...............  ,  ........  254 

XXXIV.  EVERARD  AND  ROSSIE  ......................  259 

XXXV.  MR.  AND  MRS.  J.  E.  FORREST  ...............  263 

XXXVI.  ROSAMOND'S  DECISION  .....................  273 

XXXVII.  MATTERS  ARE  ADJUSTED  ....................  277 

XXXVni.  "  WAITING  AND  WATCHING  FOR  ME  "  ........  283 

XXXIX.  How  THE  TIDE  EBBED  AND  FLOWED  IN  ROTH- 

SAY  ...................................  288 

XL.  DR.  MATTHEWSON'S  GAME  .................     292 

XLL  How  THE  GAME  WAS  PLAYED  ................   296 

XLH.  ALAS,  POOR  ROSSIE  !  ......................   818 

XLIII.  THE  LETTERS  .............................  823 

XLIV.  THE  NEW  HEIR  ...........................  327 

XLV.  THE  NEW  REIGN  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE  ____  336 

XL  VI.  THE  LETTER  FROM  AUSTRIA  .................   343 

XL  VII.  AGNES  FINDS  THE  LETTER  ..................  348 

XLVIH.  LA  MAISON  DE  SAHTE  ......................  356 

XLIX.  THE  ESCAPE  ..............................  364 

L.  GOING  HOME  ..............................  370 

LI.  BREAKING  THE  NEWS  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE.  373 

LH.  BREAKING  THE  NEWS  TO  EVERARD  ..........  377 

LIE.  THE  ARREST  ..............................  383 

LIV.  TELLING  THE  TRUTH  TO  ROSSIE  ............  387 

LV.  CONCLUSION..                ...................  389 


THE  FORREST  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  I. 
TWO  LETTERS. 

HE  first,  a  small  half-sheet,  inclosed  in  a  large 
thick  envelope,  and  addressed  in  a  childish, 
unformed  hand  to  Mr.  James  Everard  Forrest, 
Junior,  Ellicottville,  Berkshire  County,  Mas- 
sachusetts, with  a  request  in  the  lower  left- 
hand  corner  for  the  postmaster  to  forward  immediately  ; 
the  second,  a  dainty  little  perfumed  missive,  with  a 
fanciful  monogram,  directed  in  a  plain  round  hand  to  J. 
Everard  Forrest,  Esq.,  Ellicottville,  Mass.,  with  the  words 
"  in  haste  "  written  in  the  corner.  Both  letters  were  in  a 
hurry,  and  both  found  their  way  together  to  a  brown- 
haired,  brown-eyed,  brown-faced  young  man,  who  sat 
under  the  shadow  of  the  big  maple  tree  on  the  Common 
in  Ellicottville,  lazily  puffing  his  cigar  and  fanning  him- 
self with  his  Panama  hat,  for  the  thermometer  was 
ninety  in  the  shade,  and  the  hour  10  A.  M.  of  a  sultry 
July  day.  At  first  it  was  almost  too  much  exertion  to 
break  the  seals,  and  for  a  moment  J.  Everard  Forrest, 
Jr.,  toyed  with  the  smaller  envelope  of  the  two,  and 
studied  the  handwriting. 

"I  may  as  well  see  what  Josey  wants  of  me    in 
haste"  he  said  at  last,  and  breaking  the  seal,  he  read  : 

"  HOLBUETON,  July  15. 

"  DEAR  NED  :  You  must  come  to-morrow  on  the  four 
o'clock  train.     Everything  has  gone  at  sixes  and  sevens, 

m 


8  TWO     LETTERS. 

for  just  at  the  very  last  Mrs.  Murdock,  who  has  been 
dying  for  twenty  years  or  more,  must  really  die,  and  the 
Murdock  boys  can't  act,  so  you  must  take  the  character 
of  the  bridegroom  in  the  play  where  I  am  to  be  the 
bride.  You  will  have  very  little  to  say.  You  can  learn 
it  all  in  fifteen  minutes,  but  you  must  come  to-morrow  so 
as  to  rehearse  with  us  once  at  least.  Now,  don't  you 
dare  fail.  I  shall  meet  you  at  the  station. 
"Yours  lovingly, 

"  JOSEPHINE  FLEMING. 

"  P.  S. — Do  you  remember  I  wrote  you  in  my  last  of 
a  Dr.  Matthewson,  who  has  been  in  town  a  few  days 
stopping  at  the  hotel  ?  He  has  consented  to  be  the  priest 
on  condition  that  you  are  the  bridegoom,  so  do  not  fail 
me.  Again,  with  love,  JOE." 

"  And  so  this  is  my  lady's  great  haste,"  the  young 
man  said,  as  he  finished  reading  the  letter.  "  She  wants 
me  for  her  bridegoorn,  and  I  don't  know  but  I'm  willing, 
so  I  guess  I'll  have  to  go  ;  and  now  for  Rossie's  inter- 
esting document,  which  must  be  '  forwarded  immediate- 
ly.' I  only  wish  it  may  prove  to  have  money  in  it  from 
the  governor,  for  I  am  getting  rather  low." 

So  saying  he  took  the  other  letter  and  examined  it 
carefully,  while  a  smile  broke  over  his  face  as  he  con- 
tinued : 

"Upon  my  word,  Rossie  did  not  mean  this  to  go 
astray,  and  has  written  everything  out  in  full,  even  to 
Massachusetts  and  Junior.  Good  for  her.  But  how 
crooked  ;  why,  that  junior  stands  at  an  angle  of  several 
degrees  above  the  Mr.  Rossie  ought  to  do  better.  She 
must  be  nearly  thirteen  ;  but  she's  a  nice  little  girl,  and 
I'll  see  what  she  says." 

What  she  said  was  as  follows  : 

"  FORREST  HOUSE,  July  14th. 
"  MR.  EVERARD  FORREST  : 

"  Dear  Sir: — Nobody  knows  I  am  writing  to  you,  but 
your  mother  has  been  worse  for  a  few  days,  and  keeps 
talking  about  you  even  in  her  sleep.  She  did  not  say 
send  for  you,  but  I  thought  if  you  knew  how  bad  she 
was,  you  would  perhaps  come  home  for  a  part  of  your 
vacation.  It  will  do  her  so  much  good  to  see  you.  I 


TWO     LETTERS.  9 

am   very   well   and   your   father   too.     So  no   more  at 
present.  Yours  respectfully, 

"  ROSAMOND  HASTINGS. 

"P.  S. — Miss  Beatrice  Belknap  has  come  home  from 
New  York,  and  had  the  typhoid  fever,  and  lost  every 
speck  of  her  beautiful  hair.  You  don't  know  how 
funny  she  looks  !  She  offered  me  fifty  dollars  for  mine 
to  make  her  a  wig,  because  it  curls  naturally,  and" is  just 
her  color,  but  I  would  not  sell  it  for  the  world  :  would 
you  '?  Inclosed  find  ten  dollars  of  my  very  own  money, 
which  I  send  you  to  come  home  with,  thinking  you 
might  need  it.  Do  not  fail  to  come,  will  you  ? 

u  ROSAMOND." 

Everard  read  this  letter  twice,  and  smoothed  out  the 
crisp  ten-dollar  bill,  which  was  carefully  wrapped  in  a 
separate  bit  of  paper.  It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had 
received  money  in  his  sore  need  from  the  girl,  for  in  a 
blank-book,  which  he  always  carried  in  his  pocket,  were 
several  entries,  as  follows  :  "  Jan.  2,  from  Rosamond 
Hastings,  five  dollars  :  March  4th,  two  dollars  :  June 
8th,  one  dollar,"  and  so  on  until  the  whole  amount  was 
more  than  twenty  dollars,  but  never  before  had  she  sent 
him  so  large  a  sum  as  now,  and  there  was  a  moisture  in 
his  eyes  and  his  breath  came  heavily  as  he  put  it  away 
in  his  purse,  and  said  : 

"There  never  was  so  unselfish  a  creature  as  Rossie 
Hastings.  She  is  always  thinking  of  somebody  else. 
And  I  am  a  mean,  contemptible  dog  to  take  her  money 
as  I  do  ;  but  then,  I  honestly  intend  to  pay  her  back 
tenfold  when  I  have  something  of  my  own." 

Thus  re-assuring  himself,  he  put  his  purse  in  his  pocket, 
and  glancing  again  at  Rossie's  letter  his  eye  fell  upon 
Miss  Belknap's  name,  and  he  laughed  aloud  as  he  said  : 

"  Poor  bald  Bee  Belknap.  She  must  look  comical. 
I  can  imagine  how  it  hurts  her  pride.  Buy  Rossie's  hair, 
indeed  !  I  should  think  not,  when  that  is  her  only  beauty, 
if  I  except  her  eyes,  which  are  too  large  for  her  thin 
face  ;  but  that  will  round  out  in  time,  and  Rossie  may  be 
a  beauty  yet,  though  not  like  Josey  ;  no,  never  like  Josey." 

And  that  brought  the  young  man  back  to  Miss 
Fleming's  letter,  and  its  imperative  request.  Could  he 
comply  with  it  now  ?  Ought  he  not  to  go  at  once  to  the 

1* 


10  DR.    MATTHEWSON. 

sick  mother,  who  was  missing  him  so  sadly,  and  who  had 
made  all  the  happiness  he  had  ever  known  at  home? 
Duty  said  yes,  but  inclination  drew  him  to  Holburton 
and  the  fair  Josephine,  with  whom  he  believed  himself 
to  be  and  with  whom  he  was,  perhaps,  as  much  in  love 
as  any  young  man  of  twenty  well  can  be.  Perhaps  Rossie 
had  been  unduly  alarmed  ;  at  all  events,  if  his  mother 
were  so  very  sick,  his  father  would  write,  of  course,  and 
on  the  whole  he  believed  he  should  go  to  Holburton  by 
the  afternoon  train,  and  then,  perhaps,  go  home. 

And  so  the  die  was  cast,  and  the  young  man  walked  to 
the  telegraph  office  and  sent  across  the  wires  to  Miss 
Josephine  Fleming  the  three  words  :  "  I  will  come." 


CHAPTER  II. 
DR.    MATTHEWSON. 

train  from  Ellicottville  was  late  that  after- 
noon. In  fact,  its  habit  was  to  be  late,  but  on 
this  particular  day  it  was  more  than  usually 
behind  time,  and  the  one  stage  which  Holbur- 
ton boasted  had  waited  more  than  half  an 
hour  at  the  little  station  of  the  out-of-the-way  town  which 
lies  nestled  among  the  Berkshire  hills,  just  on  the  bound- 
ary line  between  the  Empire  State  and  Massachusetts. 
The  day  was  hot  even  for  midsummer,  and  the  two  fat, 
motherly  matrons  who  sat  in  the  depot  alternately  in- 
veighed against  the  heat  and  wiped  their  glowing  faces, 
while  they  watched  and  discussed  the  young  lady  who, 
on  the  platform  outside,  was  walking  up  and  down,  seem- 
ing wholly  unconscious  of  their  espionage.  But  it  was 
only  seeming,  for  she  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  was 
an  object  of  curiosity  and  criticism,  and  more  than  once 
she  paused  in  her  walk  and  turning  squarely  round  faced 
the  two  old  ladies  in  order  to  give  them  a  better  view, 
and  let  them  see  just  how  many  tucks,  and  ruffles  and 
puffs  there  were  in  her  new  dress,  worn  that  day  for  the 
first  time.  And  a  very  pretty  picture  Josephine  Fleming 


DR.    MATTHEWSON.  11 

made  standing  there  in  the  sunshine,  looking  so  artless 
and  innocent,  as  if  no  thought  of  herself  had  ever  entered 
her  mind.  She  was  a  pink-and-white  blonde,  with  masses 
of  golden  hair  rippling  back  from  her  forehead,  and  those 
dreamy  blue  eyes  of  which  poets  sing,  and  which  have  in 
them  a  marvelous  power  to  sway  the  sterner  sex  by  that 
pleading,  confiding  expression,  which  makes  a  man  very 
tender  towards  the  helpless  creature  appealing  so  inno- 
cently to  him  for  protection. 

The  two  old  ladies  did  not  like  Josephine,  though 
they  admitted  that  she  was  very  beautiful  and  stylish,  in 
her  blue  muslin  and  white  chip  hat  with  the  long  feather 
drooping  low  behind,  too  pretty  by  far  and  too  much  of 
the  fine  lady,  they  said,  for  a  daughter  of  the  widow 
Roxie  Fleming,  who  lived  in  the  brown  house  on  the 
Common,  and  sewed  for  a  living  when  she  had  no 
boarders  from  the  city.  And  then,  as  the  best  of  women 
will  sometimes  do.  they  picked  the  girl  to  pieces,  and 
talked  of  the  scandalot  $  way  she  had  of  flirting  with 
every  man  in  town,  of  h  »•  airs  and  indolence,  which  they 
called  laziness,  and  wo>  .dered  if  it  were  true  that  poor 
old  Agnes,  her  half-si  >ter,  made  the  young  lady's  bed, 
and  mended  her  cloth  »,  and  waited  upon  her  generally 
as  if  she  were  a  pr'/icess,  and  toiled,  and  worked,  and 
went  without  herse  /,  that  Josey  might  be  clothed  in 
dainty  apparel,  un?-ecoming  to  one  in  her  rank  of  life. 
And  then  they  v  ondered  next  if  it  were  true,  as  had 
been  rumored,  that  she  was  engaged  to  that  young  For- 
rest from  Amherst  College,  who  had  boarded  at  the 
brown  house  for  a  few  weeks  the  previous  summer,  and 
been  there  so  often  since. 

"A  well-mannered  chap  as  you  would  wish  to  see," 
one  of  them  said,  "  with  a  civil  word  for  high  and  low, 
and  a  face  of  which  any  mother  might  be  proud  ; 

only "  and  here  the  speaker  lowered  her  voice,  as 

she  continued  :  "  Only  he  does  look  a  little  fast,  for  no 
decent-behaved  boy  of  twenty  ought  to  have  such  a 
tired,  fagged  look  as  he  has,  and  they  do  say  there  were 
some  great  carousin's  at  Widder  Fleming's  last  summer, 
which  lasted  up  to  midnight,  and  wine  was  carried  in  by 
Agnes,  and  hot  coffee  made  as  late  as  eleven,  and  if 
you'll  b'leve  it  " — here  the  voice  was  a  whisper — "  they 
a  pack  of  cards,  for  Miss  Murdock  saw  them  with 


12  DR.    MATTHEWSON. 

her  own  eyes,  and  young  Forrest  handled  them  as  if 
used  to  the  business." 

"  Cards  !  That  settles  it !"  was  repeated  by  the  sec- 
ond woman,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  which  indicated 
that  she  knew  all  she  cared  to  know  of  Everard  Forrest, 
but  her  friend,  who  was  evidently  better  posted  in  the 
gossip  of  the  town,  went  on  to  add  that  "  people  said 
young  Forrest  was  an  only  son,  and  that  his  father  was 
very  rich,  and  lived  in  a  fine  old  place  somewhere  west 
or  south,  and  had  owned  negroes  in  Kentucky  before  the 
war,  and  was  a  copperhead,  and  very  close  and  proud, 
and  kept  colored  help,  and  would  not  like  it  at  all  if  he 
knew  how  his  son  was  flirting  with  Josephine  Fleming." 

Then  they  talked  of  the  expected  entertainment  at, 
the  Village  Hall  the  following  night,  the  proceeds  of 
which  were  to  go  toward  buying  a  fire-engine,  which  the 
people  greatly  needed.  And  Josephine  was  to  figure  in 
most  everything,  and  they  presumed  she  was  now  wait- 
ing for  some  chap  to  come  on  the  train. 

For  once  they  were  right  in  their  conjecture.  She 
was  waiting  for  Everard  Forrest,  and  when  the  train 
came  in  he  stepped  upon  the  platform  looking  so  fresh, 
and  cool,  and  handsome  in  his  white  linen  suit  that  the 
ladies  almost  forgave  Josephine  for  the  gushing  manner 
with  which  she  greeted  him,  and  carried  him  off  toward 
home.  She  was  so  glad  to  see  him,  and  her  eyes  looked 
at  him  so  softly  and  tenderly,  and  she  had  so  much  to 
tell  him,  and  was  so  excited  with  it  all,  and  the  brown 
house  overgrown  with  hopvines  was  so  cool  and  pleasant, 
and  Agnes  had  such  a  tempting  little  supper  prepared 
for  him  on  the  back  piazza,  that  Everard  felt  supremely 
happy  and  content,  and  once,  when  nobody  was  looking 
on,  kissed  the  blue-eyed  fairy  flitting  so  joyously  around 
him. 

"  I  say,  Josey,"  he  said,  when  the  tea-things  had  been 
removed,  and  he  was  lounging  in  his  usual  lazy  attitude 
upon  the  door-step  and  smoking  his  cigar,  "  it's  a  heap 
nicer  here  than  down  in  that  hot,  close  hall.  Let's  not 
go  to  the  rehearsal.  I'd  rather  stay  home." 

"But  you  can't  do  it.  You  must  go,"  Josephine  re- 
plied. "  You  must  rehearse  and  learn  your  part,  though 
for  to-night  it  doesn't  matter.  You  can  go  through  the 
marriage  ceremony  well  enough,  can't  you  ?" 


DR.     HATTHEWSON.  13 

"  Of  course  I  can,  and  can  say,  ( I,  Everard,  take  thee, 
Josie,  to  be  my  lawful  wife,'  and,  by  Jove,  I  wouldn't 
care  if  it  was  genuine.  Suppose  we  get  a  priest,  and 
make  a  real  thing  of  it.  I'm  willing,  if  you  are." 

There  was  a  pretty  blush  on  Josey's  cheek  as  she  re- 
plied, "  What  nonsense  you  are  talking,  and  you  not  yet 
through  college  !"  and  then  hurried  him  off  to  the 
hall,  where  the  rehearsal  was  to  take  place. 

Here  an  unforeseen  difficulty  presented  itself.  Dr. 
Matthewson  was  not  forthcoming  in  his  character  as 
priest.  He  had  gone  out  of  town,  and  had  not  yet  re- 
turned ;  so  another  took  his  place  in  the  marriage  scene, 
where  Everard  was  the  bridegoom  and  Josephine  the 
bride.  The  play  was  called  "  The  Mock  Marriage,"  and 
would  be  very  effective  with  the  full  glamour  of  lights, 
and  dress,  and  people  on  the  ensuing  night  ;  and  Jose- 
phine declared  herself  satisfied  with  the  rehearsal,  and 
sanguine  of  success,  especially  as  Dr.  Matthewson 
appeared  at  the  last  moment  apologizing  for  his  tardi- 
ness, and  assuring  her  of  his  intention  to  be  present  the 
next  evening. 

He  was  a  tall,  powerfully-built  man  of  thirty  or  more, 
whom  many  would  call  handsome,  though  there  was  a 
cruel,  crafty  look  in  his  eyes,  and  in  the  smile  which 
habitually  played  about  his  mouth.  Still,  he  was  very 
gentlemanly  in  his  manner,  and  fascinating  in  his  con- 
versation, for  he  had  traveled  much,  and  seen  every- 
thing, and  spoke  both  German  and  French  as  readily  as 
his  mother  tongue.  With  Miss  Fleming  he  seemed  to  be 
on  the  most  intimate  terms,  though  this  intimacy  only 
dated  from  the  time  when  she  pleaded  with  him  so 
prettily  and  successfully  to  take  the  place  of  the  priest 
in  "  The  Mock  Marriage,"  where  John  Murdock  was 
to  have  officiated.  At  first  the  doctor  had  objected,  say- 
ing gallantly  that  he  preferred  to  be  the  bridegroom,  and 
asking  who  that  favored  individual  was  to  be. 

"Mr.  Everard  Forrest,  from  Rothsay,  Southern 
Ohio,"  Josephine  replied,  with  a  conscious  blush  which 
told  much  to  the  experienced  man  of  the  world. 

"Forrest!  Everard  Forrest!"  the  doctor  repeated 
thoughtfully,  and  the  smile  about  his  mouth  was  more 
perceptible.  "  Seems  to  me  I  have  heard  that  name  be- 
fore. Where  did  you  say  he  lived,  and  where  is  he  now  ?" 


14  DR.    MATTHEWSON. 

Josephine  replied  again  that  Mr.  Forrest's  home  was 
in  Rothsay,  Ohio,  at  a  grand  old  place  called  Forrest 
House  ;  that  he  was  a  student  at  Araherst,  and  was 
spending  his  summer  vacation  with  a  friend  in  Ellicott- 
ville. 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  the  doctor  rejoined,  adding,  after 
a  moment's  pause:  "  I'll  be  the  priest ;  but  suppose  I  had 
the  power  to  marry  you  in  earnest ;  what  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  wouldn't.  You  must  not.  Everard  is  not 
through  college,  and  it  would  be  so  very  dreadful — and 
romantic,  too,"  the  girl  said,  as  she  looked  searchingly 
into  the  dark  eyes  meeting  hers  so  steadily. 

Up  to  that  time  Dr.  Matthewson  had  taken  but  little 
notice  of  Josephine,  except  to  remark  her  exceeding 
beauty  as  a  golden-haired  blonde.  With  his  knowledge 
of  the  world  and  ready  discernment  he  had  discovered 
that  whatever  position  she  held  in  Holburton  was  due  to 
her  beauty  and  piquancy,  and  firm  resolve  to  be  noticed, 
rather  than  to  any  blood,  or  money,  or  culture.  She  was 
not  a  lady,  he  knew,  the  first  time  he  saw  her  in  the  little 
church,  and,  attracted  by  her  face,  watched  her  through 
the  service,  while  she  whispered,  and  laughed,  and  passed 
notes  to  the  young  men  in  front  of  her.  Without  any 
respect  himself  for  religion  or  the  church,  he  despised 
irreverence  in  others,  and  formed  a  tolerably  accurate 
estimate  of  Josephine  and  her  companions.  After  her 
interview  with  him,  however,  he  became  greatly  interested 
in  everything  pertaining  to  her,  and  by  a  little  adroit 
questioning  learned  all  there  was  to  be  known  of  her, 
and,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  more  too.  Her  mother  was 
poor,  and  crafty  and  designing,  and  very  ambitious  for 
her  daughter's  future.  That  she  took  in  sewing  and 
kept  boarders  was  nothing  to  her  detriment  in  a 
village,  where  the  people  believed  in  honest  labor, 
but  that  she  traded  on  her  daughter's  charms,  and 
brought  her  up  in  utter  idleness,  while  Agnes,  the  child 
of  her  husband's  first  marriage,  was  made  a  very  drudge 
and  slave  to  the  young  beauty,  was  urged  against  her  as 
a  serious  wrong,  and,  except  as  the  keeper  of  a  boarding- 
house,  in  which  capacity  she  excelled,  the  WidoV 
Fleming  was  not  very  highly  esteemed  in  Holburton. 
All  this  Dr.  Matthewson  leafned,  and  then  he  was  told 
of  young  Forrest,  a  mere  boy,  two  years  younger 


DR.     MATTHEWSON.  15 

than  Josey,  who  had  stopped  with  Mrs.  Fleming  a  few 
weeks  the  previous  summer,  and  for  whom  both  Josey 
and  the  mother  had,  to  use  the  landlady's  words,  "  made 
a  dead  set,"  and  succeeded,  too,  it  would  seem,  for  if  they 
were  not  engaged  they  ought  to  be,  though  it  was  too 
bad  for  the  boy,  and  somebody  ought  to  tell  his  father. 

Such  was  in  substance  the  story  told  by  the  hostess 
of  the  Eagle  to  Dr.  Matthewson,  who  smiled  serenely  as 
he  heard  it,  and  stroked  his  silken  mustache  thought- 
fully, and  then  went  down  to  call  upon  Miss  Fleming, 
and  judge  for  himself  how  well  she  was  fitted  to  be  the 
mistress  of  Forrest  House. 

When  Everard  came  and  was  introduced  to  him  after 
the  rehearsal,  there  was  a  singular  expression  in  the  eyes 
which  scanned  the  young  man  so  curiously  ;  but  the 
doctor's  manners  were  perfect,  and  never  had  Everard 
been  treated  with  more  deference  and  respect  than  by 
this  handsome  stranger,  who  called  upon  him  at  Mrs. 
Fleming's  early  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  course  of  an 
hour  established  himself  on  such  terms  of  intimacy  with 
the  young  man  that  he  learned  more  of  his  family  history 
than  Josephine  herself  knew  after  an  acquaintance  of 
more  than  a  year.  Everard  never  could  explain  to  him- 
self how  he  was  led  on  naturally  and  easily  to  speak  of 
his  home  in  Rothsay,  the  grand  old  place  of  which  he 
would  be  heir,  as  he  was  the  only  child.  He  did  not 
know  how  much  his  father  was  worth,  he  said,  as  his 
fortune  was  estimated  at  various  sums,  but  it  didn't  do 
him  much  good,  for  the  governor  was  close,  and  insisted 
upon  knowing  how  every  penny  was  spent.  Consequently 
Everard,  who  was  fast  and  expensive  in  his  habits,  was, 
as  he  expressed  it,  always  hard  up,  and  if  his  mother 
did  not  occasionally  send  him  something  unknown  to  his 
father  he  would  be  in  desperate  straits,  for  a  fellow  in 
college  with  the  reputation  of  being  rich  must  have 
money. 

Here  Everard  thought  of  Rosamond  and  what  she 
had  sent  him,  but  he  could  not  speak  of  that  to  this 
stranger,  who  sat  smiling  so  sweetly  upon  him,  and  lead- 
ing him  on  step  by  step  until  at  last  Rossie's  name  did 
drop  from  his  lips,  and  was  quickly  caught  up  by  Dr. 
Matthewson. 


16  DR.     MATTHEWSON. 

"Rossie!"  he  repeated,  in  his  low,  purring  tone, 
"  Rossie  !  Who  is  she  ?  Have  you  a  sister  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  I  told  you  I  was  an  only  child.  Rossie  is 
Rosamond  Hastings,  a  little  girl  whose  mother  was  my 
mother's  most  intimate  friend.  They  were  school-girls 
together,  and  pledged  themselves  to  stand  by  each  other 
should  either  ever  come  to  grief,  as  Mrs.  Hastings  did." 

"Married  unhappily,  perhaps?"  the  doctor  suggested, 
and  Everard  replied  : 

"Yes  ;  married  a  man  much  older  than  herself,  who 
abused  her  so  shamefully  that  she  left  him  at  last,  and 
sought  refuge  with  my  mother.  Fortunately  this  Hast- 
ings died  soon  after,  so  she  was  freed  from  him  ;  but  she 
had  another  terror  in  the  shape  of  his  son,  the  child  of  a 
former  marriage,  who  annoyed  her  dreadfully." 

"How  could  he?"  the  "doctor  asked,  and  Everard 
replied  : 

"  I  hardly  know.  I  believe,  though,  it  was  about 
some  house  or  piece  of  land,  of  which  Mrs.  Hastings 
held  the  deed  for  Rossie,  and  this  John  thought  he 
ought  to  share  it,  at  least,  and  seemed  to  think  it  a  for- 
tune, when  in  fact  it  proved  to  be  worth  only  two 
thousand  dollars,  which  is  all  Rosamond  has  of  her 
own." 

"  Perhaps  he  did  not  know  how  little  there  was,  and 
thought  it  unjust  for  his  half-sister  to  have  all  his  father 
left,  and  he  nothing,"  the  doctor  said,  and  it  never  once 
occurred  to  Everard  to  wonder  how  he  knew  that  Mr. 
Hastings  left  all  to  his  daughter,  and  nothing  to  his  son. 

He  was  wholly  unsuspicious,  and  went  on  : 

"  Possibly  ;  at  all  events  he  worried  his  stepmother 
into  hysterics  by  coming  there  one  day  in  winter,  and 
demanding  first  the  deed  or  will,  and  second  his  sister, 
whom  he  said  his  father  gave  to  his  charge.  But  I 
settled  him  !" 

"  Yes  ?"  the  doctor  said,  interrogatively,  and  Everard 
continued  : 

"  Father  was  gone,  and  this  wretch,  who  must  have 
been  in  liquor,  was  bullying  my  mother,  and  declaring 
he  would  go  to  the  room  where  Mrs.  Hastings  was  faint- 
ing for  fear  of  him,  when  I  came  in  from  riding,  and 
just  bade  him  begone  ;  and  when  he  said  to  me  sneer- 
'  Oh,  little  David,  what  do  you  think  you  can  do 


DR.     MATTHEWSON.  17 

with  the  giant,  you  have  no  sling?'  I  hit  him  a  cut 
with  my  riding-whip  which  made  him  wince  with  pain, 
and  J  followed  up  the  blows  till  he  left  the  house  vowing 
vengeance  on  me  for  the  insult  offered  him." 

"  And  since  then  ?"  the  doctor  asked. 

"  Since  then  I  have  never  seen  him.  After  Mrs. 
Hastings  died  he  wrote  an  impertinent  letter  to  father 
asking  the  guardianship  of  his  sister,  but  we  had  prom- 
ised her  mother  solemnly  never  to  let  her  fall  into  his 
hands  or  under  his  influence,  and  father  wrote  him  such 
a  letter  as  settled  him ;  at  least,  we  have  never  heard 
from  him  since,  and  that  is  eight  years  ago.  Nor  should 
I  know  him  either,  for  it  was  dark,  and  he  all  muffled 
up." 

".And  have  you  no  fear  of  him,  that  he  may  yet  be 
revenged  ?  People  like  him  do  not  usually  take  cowhid- 
ings  quietly,"  the  doctor  asked. 

"  No,  I've  no  fear  of  him,  for  what  can  he  do  to  me  ? 
Besides,  I  should  not  wonder  if  he  were  dead.  We  have 
never  heard  of  him  since  that  letter  to  father,"  was 
Everard's  reply,  and  after  a  moment  his  companion  con- 
tinued : 

"  And  this  girl, — is  she  pretty  and  bright,  and  how 
old  is  she  now  ?" 

"Rossie  must  be  thirteen,"  Everard  said,  "and  the 
very  nicest  girl  in  the  world,  but  as  to  being  pretty,  she 
is  too  thin  for  that,  though  she  has  splendid  eyes,  large 
and  brilliant,  and  black  as  midnight,  and  what  is  pecu- 
liar for  such  eyes,  her  hair,  which  ripples  all  over  her 
head,  is  a  rich  chestnut  brown,  with  a  tinge  of  gold  upon 
it  when  seen  in  the  sunlight.  Her  hair  is  her  great 
beauty,  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  she  grew  to  be 
quite  a  handsome  woman." 

"  Very  likely  ; — excuse  me,  Mr.  Forrest,"  and  the  doc- 
tor spoke  respectfully,  nay,  deferentially,  "  excuse  me  if 
I  appear  too  familiar.  We  have  talked  together  so  free- 
ly that  you  do-  not  seem  a  stranger,  and  friendships,  you 
know,  are  not  always  measured  by  time." 

Everard  bowed,  and,  foolish  boy  that  he  was,  felt 
flattered  by  this  giant  of  a  man,  who  went  on  : 

"Possibly  this  little  Rossie  may  some  day  be  the 
daughter  of  the  house  in  earnest." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  that  my  father  will  adopt  her 


18  DR.    MATTHEWSON. 

regularly  ?"  Everard  asked,  as  he  lifted  his  clear,  honest 
eyes  inquiringly  to  the  face  of  his  companion,  who,  find- 
ing that  in  dealing  with  a  frank,  open  nature  like  Ever- 
ard's  he  must  speak  out  plain,  replied  : 

"I  mean,  perhaps  you  will  marry  her." 

"  I  marry  Rossie  !  Absurd  !  Why,  I  would  as  soon 
think  of  marrying  my  sister,"  and  Everard  laughed 
merrily  at  the  idea. 

"Such  a  thing  is  possible,"  returned  the  doctor, 
"though  your  father  might  object  on  the  score  of  family, 
if  that  brother  is  such  a  scamp.  I  imagine  he  is  rather 
proud  ;  your  father,  I  mean, — not  that  brother." 

"  Rossie's  family  is  well  enough  for  anything  I  know 
to  the  contrary,"  said  Everard.  "Father  would  not  ob- 
ject to  that,  though  he  is  infernally  proud.  He  is  a 
South  Carolinian,  born  in  Charleston,  and  boasts  of 
Southern  blood  and  Southern  aristocracy,  while  mother 
is  a  Bostonian,  of  the  bluest  dye,  and  both  would  think 
the  Queen  of  England  honored  to  have  a  daughter 
marry  their  son.  Nothing  would  put  father  in  such  a 
passion  as  for  me  to  make  what  he  thought  a  mesalli- 
ance" 

"  Yes,  I  see,  and  yet " 

The  doctor  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  looked 
instead  down  into  the  garden  where  Josephine  was  flit- 
ting among  the  flowers. 

"  Miss  Fleming  is  a  very  beautiful  girl,"  the  doctor 
said,  at  last,  and  Everard  responded  heartily  : 

"Yes,  the  handsomest  I  ever  saw." 

"And  rumor  says  you  two  are  very  fond  of  each 
other,"  was  the  doctor's  next  remark,  which  brought  a 
blush  like  that  of  a  young  girl  to  Eveord's  cheek,  but 
elicited  no  reply,  for  there  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon  his 
mind  a  suspicion  that  his  inmost  secrets  were  being  wrung 
from  him  by  this  smooth-tongued  stranger,  who,  quick 
to  detect  every  fluctuation  of  thought  and  feeling  in 
another,  saw  he  had  gone  far  enough,  and  having  learned 
all  he  cared  to  know,  he  arose  to  go,  and  after  a  good- 
morning  to  Everard  and  a  few  soft  speeches  to  Josephine, 
walked  away  and  left  the  pair  alone. 


THE    MOCK    MARRIAGE.  19 

CHAPTER  HI. 

THE  MOCK  MAEEIAGE. 

HE  long  hall,  or  rather  ball-room,  of  the  old 
Eagle  tavern  was  crowded  to  its  utmost 
capacity,  for  the  entertainment  had  been 
talked  of  for  a  long  time,  and  as  the  proceeds 
were  to  help  buy  a  fire-engine,  the  whole  town 
was  interested,  and  the  whole  town  was  there.  First  on 
the  programme  came  tableaux  and  charades,  interspersed 
with  music  from  the  glee  club,  and  music  from  the 
Ellicott  band,  and  then  there  was  a  great  hush  of  expec- 
tation and  eager  anticipation,  for  the  gem  of  the  perform- 
ance was  reserved  for  the  last. 

Behind  the  scenes,  in  the  little  ante-rooms  where  the 
dressing,  and  powdering,  and  masking,  and  jesting  were 
all  going  on  promiscuously,  Josephine  Fleming  was  in  a 
state  of  great  excitement,  but  hers  was  a  face  and  com- 
plexion which  never  looked  red  or  tired.  She  was, 
perhaps,  a  shade  paler  than  her  wont,  and  her  eyes  were 
brighter  and  bluer  as  she  stood  before  the  little  two-foot 
glass,  giving  the  last  touches  to  her  bridal  toilet. 

And  never  was  real  bride  more  transcendently  lovely 
than  Josephine  Fleming  when  she  stood  at  last  ready 
and  waiting  to  be  called,  in  her  fleecy  tarlatan,  with  her 
long  vail  sweeping  back  from  her  face,  and  showing  like 
a  silver  net  upon  her  golden  hair.  And  Everard,  in  his 
dark,  boyish  beauty,  looked  worthy  of  the  bride,  as  he 
bent  over  her  and  whispered  something  in  her  ear  which 
had  reference  to  a  future  day  when  this  they  were  doing 
in  jest  should  be  done  in  sober  earnest.  For  a  moment 
they  were  alone.  Dr.  Matthewson  had  managed  to 
clear  the  little  room,  and  now  he  came  to  them  and 
said  : 

"  I  feel  I  shall  be  doing  wrong  to  let  this  go  any 
further  without  telling  you  that  I  have  a  right  to  make 
the  marriage  lawful,  if  you  say  so.  A  few  years  ago  I  was 
a  clergyman  in  good  and  regular  standing  in  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church  at  Clarence,  in  the  western  part  of 


20  THE    MOCK    MARRIAGE. 

this  State.  I  am  not  in  regular  and  good  standing  now  ; 
the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  especially  the  latter, 
got  the  upper  hand  of  me,  but  I  still  have  the  power  to 
marry  you  fast  and  strong.  You  two  are  engaged,  I 
hear.  Suppose,  for  the  fun  of  it,  we  make  this  marriage 
real  ?  What  do  you  say  ?" 

He  was  looking  at  Everard,  but  he  spoke  to  Josephine, 
feeling  that  hers  would  be  the  more  ready  assent  of  the 
two.  She  was  standing  with  her  arm  linked  in  Everard's, 
and  at  Dr.  Matthewson's  words  she  lifted  her  blue  eyes 
coyly  to  her  lover's  face,  and  said  : 

"  Wouldn't  that  be  capital,  and  shouldn't  we  steal  a 
march  on  everybody  ?" 

She  waited  for  him  to  speak,  but  his  answer  did  not 
come  at  once.  It  is  true  he  had  said  something  of  this 
very  nature  to  her  only  the  night  before,  but  now,  when 
it  came  to  him  as  something  which  might  be  if  he  chose, 
he  started  as  if  he  had  been  stung,  and  the  color  faded 
from  his  lips,  which  quivered  as  he  said,  with  an  effort 
to  smile  : 

"  I'd  like  it  vastly,  only  you  see  I  am  not  through 
college,  and  I  should  be  expelled  at  once.  Then  father 
never  would  forgive  me.  He'd  disinherit  me,  sure." 

"  Hardly  so  bad  as  that,  I  think,"  spoke  the  soothing 
voice  of  the  doctor,  while  one  of  Josephine's  hands 
found  its  way  to  Everard's,  which  it  pressed  softly,  as  she 
said: 

"  We  can  keep  it  a  secret,  you  know,  till  you  are 
through  college,  and  it  would  be  such  fun." 

Half  an  hour  before  Everard  had  gone  with  the  doc- 
tor to  the  bar  and  taken  a  glass  of  wine,  which  was 
beginning  to  affect  his  brain  and  cloud  his  better  judg- 
ment, while  Josephine  was  still  looking  at  him  with  those 
great,  dreamy,  pleading  eyes,  which  always  affected  him. 
so  strangely.  She  was  very  beautiful,  and  he  loved  her 
with  all  the  strength  of  his  boyish,  passionate  nature. 
So  it  is  not  strange  that  the  thought  of  possessing  her 
years  sooner  than  he  had  dared  to  hope  made  his  young 
blood  stir  with  ecstasy,  even  though  he  knew  it  was 
wrong.  He  was  like  the  bird  in  the  toiler's  snare,  and 
he  stood  irresolute,  trying  to  stammer  out  he  hardly 
knew  what,  except  that  it  had  some  reference  to  his 
/ather,  and  mother,  and  Rossie,  for  he  thought  of  her  in 


THE    MOCK    MARRIAGE.  21 

that  hour  of  his  temptation,  and  wondered  how  he  could 
face  her  with  that  secret  on  his  soul. 

"  They  are  growing  impatient.  Don't  you  hear  them 
stamping  ?  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?"  came  from  the 
manager  of  the  play,  as  he  put  his  head  into  the  room, 
while  a  prolonged  and  deafening  call  greeted  their  ears 
from  the  expectant  audience. 

"  Yes,  let's  go,"  Josephine  said,  "  and  pray  forget 
that  I  almost  asked  you  to  marry  me  and  you  refused.  I 
should  not  have  done  it  only  it  is  Leap-year,  you  know, 
and  I  have  a  right ;  but  it  was  all  in  joke,  of  course.  I 
didn't  mean  it.  Don't  think  I  did,  Everard." 

Oh,  how  soft  and  beautiful  were  the  eyes  swimming 
in  tears  and  lifted  so  pleadingly  to  Everard's  face  !  It 
was  more  than  mortal  man  could  do  to  withstand  them, 
and  Everard  went  down  before  them  body  and  soul.  His 
father's  bitter  anger, — so  sure  to  follow,  his  mother's 
grief  and  disappointment  in  her  son,  and  Rossie's  child- 
ish surprise  were  all  forgotten,  or,  if  remembered,  weighed 
as  nought  compared  with  this  lovely  creature  with  the 
golden  hair  and  eyes  of  blue,  looking  so  sweetly  and  ten- 
derly at  him. 

"  I'll  do  it,  by  George  !"  he  said,  and  the  hot  blood 
came  surging  back  to  his  face.  "  It  will  be  the  richest 
kind  of  a  lark.  Tie  as  tight  as  you  please.  I  am  more 
than  willing." 

He  was  very  much  excited,  and  Josephine  was  trem- 
bling like  a  leaf.  Only  Dr.  Matthewson  was  calm  as  he 
asked  :  "Do  you  really  mean  it,  and  will  you  stand  to 
it?" 

"  Are  you  ever  coming  ?"  came  angrily  this  time  from 
the  manager,  who  was  losing  all  patience. 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it,  and  will  stand  to  it,"  Everard  said, 
and  so  went  on  to  his  fate. 

There  was  a  cheer,  followed  by  a  deep  hush,  when  the 
curtain  was  withdrawn,  disclosing  the  bridal  party  upon 
the  stage,  fitted  up  to  represent  a  modern  drawing-room; 
with  groups  of  gayly-dressed  people  standing  together,  and 
in  their  midst  Everard  and  Josephine,  she  radiantly  beau- 
tiful, with  a  look  of  exultation  on  her  face,  but  a  tumult 
of  conflicting  emotions  in  her  heart,  as  she  wondered  if 
Dr.  Matthewson  had  told  the  truth,  and  was  authorized 
to  marry  her  really,  and  if  Everard  would  stand  to  it  or 


22  THE    MOCK    MARRIAGE. 

repudiate  the  act ;  he,  with  a  face  white  now  as  ashes, 
and  a  voice  which  was  husky  in  its  tone  when,  to  the 
question  :  "  Dost  thou  take  this  woman  for  thy  wedded 
wife  ?  Dost  thou  promise  to  love  her,  and  cherish  her, 
both  in  sickness  and  in  health,  and,  forsaking  all  others, 
keep  thee  only  unto  her?"  he  answered  :  "  I  do,"  while 
a  chill  like  the  touch  of  death  ran  through  every  nerve 
and  made  him  icy  cold. 

It  was  not  the  lark  he  thought  it  was  going  to  be  ;  it 
was  like  some  dreadful  nightmare,  and  he  could  not  at 
all  realize  what  he  was  doing  or  saying.  Even  Jose- 
phine's voice,  when  she  too  said,  "  I  will,"  sounded  very 
far  away,  as  did  Matthewson's  concluding  words  :  "  Ac- 
cording to  the  authority  vested  in  me  I  pronounce  you 
man  and  wife.  What  God  hath  joined  together  let  no 
man  put  asunder." 

How  real  it  seemed  to  the  breathless  audience — so  real 
that  Agnes  Fleming,  sitting  far  back  in  the  hall,  in  her 
faded  muslin  and  old-fashioned  bonnet,  involuntarily 
rose  to  her  feet  and  raised  her  hand  with  a  deprecating 
gesture  as  if  to  forbid  the  bans.  But  her  mother  pulled 
her  down  to  her  seat,  and  in  a  low  whisper  bade  her 
keep  quiet. 

And  so  the  play  went  on,  and  was  over  at  last  ;  the 
crowd  dispersed,  and  the  tired  actors,  sleepy  and  cross, 
gathered  up  the  paraphernalia  scattered  everywhere,  and 
went  to  their  several  homes.  Everard  and  Josephine 
were  the  last  to  leave,  for  she  had  so  much  to  say,  and 
so  much  to  see  to,  that  it  was  after  twelve,  and  the 
summer  moon  was  high  in  the  heavens  ere  they  started 
at  last  for  home,  accompanied  by  the  young  man  with 
whom  Everard  was  staying  in  Ellicottville,  and  who  had 
come  down  to  the  play. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  young  Stafford  should  pass 
the  night  at  Mrs.  Fleming's,  and  when  the  party  reached 
the  cottage  they  found  a  supper  prepared  for  them,  of 
which  hot  coffee  and  sherry  formed  a  part,  and  under 
the  combined  effects  of  the  two  Everard's  spirits  began 
to  rise,  and  when  at  last  he  said  good-night  to  Josephine 
and  went  with  his  friend  to  his  room,  he  was  much  like 
himself,  and  felt  that  it  would  not  be  a  very  bad  state  of 
affairs,  after  all,  if  it  should  prove  that  Josephine  was 
really  his  wife.  It  would  only  be  expediting  matters  a 


THE    MOCK    MARRIAGE.  23 

little,  and  the  secret  would  be  so  romantic  and  unnsual. 
Still,  he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  unrest  and  dis- 
inclination to  talk,  and  declared  his  intention  of  plung- 
ing into  bed  at  once. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  better  read  this  first,"  Stafford  said, 
handing  him  a  telegram.  "It  came  this  morning,  and  I 
brought  it  with  me,  but  would  not  give  it  to  you  till 
after  the  play,  for  fear  it  might  contain  bad  news." 

Now  young  Stafford  knew  perfectly  well  the  nature 
of  the  telegram,  for  he  had  been  in  the  office  when 
it  came,  and  decided  not  to  deliver  it  until  the  play  was 
over.  It  was  from  Everard's  father,  and  read  as  follows  : 

"  To  J.  EVERARD  FORREST,  JR. — Your  mother  is  very 
sick.  Come  immediately.  J.  E.  FORREST." 

"  Oh,  Stafford,"  and  Everard's  voice  was  like  the  cry 
of  a  wounded  child,  "  why  didn't  you  give  me  this 
before.  There  was  a  train  left  at  five  o'clock.  I  could 
have  taken  it,  and  saved " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  he  could  not  put 
into  words  the  great  horror  of  impending  evil  which  had 
fallen  upon  him  with  the  receipt  of  that  telegram.  In- 
deed, he  could  not  define  to  himself  the  nature  of  his 
feelings.  He  only  knew  that  he  wished  he  had  gone 
home  in  answer  to  Rossie's  summons,  instead  of  coming 
to  Holburton.  And  in  this  he  meant  no  disloyalty  to 
Josephine,  nor  attributed  any  blame  to  her  ;  and  when, 
next  morning,  after  a  troubled  night,  in  which  no  sleep 
visited  his  weary  eyes,  he  met  her  at  the  breakfast-table 
looking  as  bright,  and  fresh,  and  pretty  as  if  she  too,  had 
not  kept  a  sleepless  vigil,  he  experienced  a  delicious 
feeling  of  ownership  in  her,  and  for  a  few  moments  felt 
willing  to  defy  the  whole  world,  if  by  so  doing  he  could 
claim  her  as  his,  then  and  there.  He  told  her  of  the 
telegram,  and  said  he  must  take  the  first  train  west, 
which  left  in  about  two  hours,  and  Josephine's  eyes 
instantly  filled  with  tears,  as  she  said  : 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  and  I  hope  your  mother  will 
recover.  I  have  always  wished  to  see  her  so  much. 
Would  you  mind  tellin'g  her  of  me,  and  giving  my  love 
to  her  ?" 

This  was  after  breakfast,  when  they  stood  together 
under  the  vine-wreathed  porch,  each  with  a  thought  of 


24  THE    MOCK    MARRIAGE. 

last  night's  ceremony  in  their  minds,  and  each  loth  to 
speak  of  it  first.  Stafford  had  gone  to  the  hotel  to  settle 
his  bill  of  the  previous  day  and  make  some  inquiries 
about  the  connection  of  the  trains,  and  thus  the  family 
were  alone  when  Dr.  Matthewson  appeared,  wearing  his 
blandest  smile,  and  addressing  Josephine  as  Mrs.  Forrest, 
and  asking  her  how  she  found  herself  after  the  play. 

At  the  sound  of  that  name  given  to  Josephine  as  if 
she  had  a  right  to  it,  a  scarlet  flame  spread  over  Everard's 
face,  and  he  felt  the  old  horror  and  dread  of  the  night 
creeping  over  him  again.  Now  was  the  time  to  know 
the  worst  or  the  best, — whichever  way  he  chose  to  put 
it, — and  as  calmly  as  possible  under  the  circumstances,  he 
turned  to  Dr.  Matthewson  and  asked  : 

"  Were  you  in  earnest  in  what  you  said  last  night  ? 
Had  you  a  right  to  marry  us,  and  is  Josephine  my  wife  ?" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  put  it  into  words,  and  as 
if  the  very  name  of  wife  made  her  dearer  to  him,  he 
wound  his  arm  around  her  and  waited  the  doctor's  answer, 
which  came  promptly  and  decidedly. 

"  Most  assuredly  she  is  your  lawful  wife  !  You  took 
her  with  your  full  consent,  knowing  I  could  marry  you, 
and  I  have  brought  your  certificate,  which  I  suppose  the 
lady  will  hold." 

He  handed  a  neatly-folded  paper  to  Josephine,  who, 
with  Everard  looking  over  her  shoulder,  read  to  the 
effect  that  on  the  evening  of  July  17th,  in  the  Village 
Hall  at  Holburton,  the  Rev.  John  Matthewson  married 
J.  Everard  Forrest,  Jr.  of  Rothsay,  Ohio,  to  Miss  Jose- 
phine Fleming  of  Holburton. 

"It  is  all  right,  I  believe,  and  only  needs  the  names 
of  your  mother  and  sister  as  witnesses  to  make  it  valid, 
in  case  the  marriage  is  ever  contested,"  Matthewson  said, 
and  this  time  he  looked  pitilessly  at  Everard,  who  was 
staring  blankly  at  the  paper  in  Josephine's  hands,  and  if 
it  had  been  his  death-warrant  he  was  reading  he  could 
scarcely  have  been  paler. 

Something  in  his  manner  must  have  communicated 
itself  to  Josephine,  for  in  real  or  feigned  distress  she 
burst  into  tears,  and  laying  her  head  on  his  arm,  sobbed 
out : 

"Oh,  Everard,  you  are  not  sorry  I  am  your  wife! 
If  you  are,  I  shall  wish  I  was  dead  !" 


THE    MOCK    MARRIAGE.  25 

"  No,  no,  Josey,  not  sorry  you  are  my  wife,"  he  said,  "  I 
could  not  be  that;  only  I  am  so  young,  and  have  two  years 
more  in  college,-and  if  this  thing  were  known  I  should 
be  expelled,  and  father  would  never  forgive  me,  or  let 
me  have  a  dollar  again;  so,  you  see  it  is  a  deuced  scrape 
after  all." 

He  was  as  near  crying  as  he  well  could  be  and  not 
actually  give  way,  and  Matthewson  was  regarding  him 
with  a  cool,  exultant  expression  in  his  cruel  eyes,  when 
Mrs.  Fleming  appeared,  asking  what  it  meant. 

Very  briefly  Dr.  Matthewson  explained  the  matter 
to  her,  and  laying  his  hand  on  Everard'sarm  said,  laugh- 
ingly : 

"  I  have  the  honor  of  presenting  to  you  your  son,  who, 
I  believe,  acknowledges  your  claim  upon  him." 

There  was  a  gleam  of  triumph  in  Mrs.  Fleming's 
eyes,  but  she  affected  to  be  astonished  and  indignant  that 
her  daughter  should  have  lent  herself  to  an  act  which 
Mr.  Forrest  was  perhaps  already  sorry  for. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  Everard  said,  and  his  young 
manhood  asserted  itself  in  Josephine's  defense.  "  Your 
daughter  was  not  more  to  blame  than  myself.  We  both 
knew  what  we  were  doing,  and  I  am  not  sorry,  except 
for  the  trouble  in  which  it  would  involve  me  if  it  were 
known  at  once  that  I  was  married." 

"  It  need  not  be  known,  except  to  ourselves,"  Mrs. 
Fleming  answered,  quickly.  "  What  is  done  cannot  be 
undone,  but  we  can  make  the  best  of  it,  and  I  promise 
that  the  secret  shall  be  kept  as  long  as  you  like.  Josey 
will  remain  with  me  as  she  is,  and  you  will  return  to  col- 
lege and  graduate  as  if  last  night  had  never  been.  Then, 
when  you  are  in  a  position  to  claim  your  wife  you  can  do 
so,  and  acknowledge  it  to  your  father." 

She  settled  it  rapidly  and  easily,  and  Everard  felt 
his  spirits  rise  thus  to  have  some  one  think  and  decide 
for  him.  It  was  not  distasteful  to  know  that  Josey  was 
his,  and  he  smoothed  caressingly  the  bowed  head,  still 
resting  on  his  arm,  where  Josey  had  laid  it.  It  would  be 
just  like  living  a  romance  all  the  time,  and  the  interviews 
they  might  occasionally  have  would  be  all  the  sweeter 
because  of  the  secrecy.  After  all,  it  was  a  pretty  nice 
lark,  and  he  felt  a  great  deal  better,  and  watched  Mrs. 
Fleming  and  Agnes  as  they  signed  their  names  to  the 


26  THE    MOCK    MARRIAGE. 

certificate,  and  noticed  how  the  latter  trembled  and  how 
pale  she  was  as,  with  what  seemed  to  him  a  look  of  pity 
for  him,  she  left  the  room  and  went  back  to  her  dish- 
washing in  the  kitchen. 

Everard  had  spent  some  weeks  in  Mrs.  Fleming's 
family  as  a  boarder,  and  had  visited  there  occasionally, 
but  he  had  never  noticed  or  thought  particularly  of 
Agnes,  except,  indeed,  as  the  household  drudge,  who  was 
always  busy  from  morning  till  night,  washing,  ironing, 
baking,  dusting,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  and  her  broad 
check  apron  tied  around  her  waist.  She  had  a  limp  in 
her  left  foot,  and  a  weakness  in  her  left  arm  which  gave 
her  a  helpless,  peculiar  appearance  ;  and  the  impression 
he  had  of  her,  if  any,  was  that  she  was  unfortunate  in 
mind  as  well  as  body,  lit  only  to  minister  to  others  as  she 
alwa}7s  seemed  to  be  doing.  She  had  never  addressed  a 
word  to  him  without  being  first  spoken  to,  and  he  was 
greatly  surprised  when,  after  Dr.  Matthewson  was  gone, 
and  Mrs.  Fleming  and  Josephine  had  for  a  moment  left 
him  alone  in  the  room,  she  came  to  him  and  putting  her 
hand  on  his,  said  in  a  whisper,  "  Did  you  reaKy  mean  it, 
or  was  it  an  accident  ?  a  joke  ?  and  do  you  want  to  get 
out  of  it  ?  because,  if  you  do,  now  is  the  time.  Say  you 
didn't  mean  it !  Say  you  won't  stand  it,  and  there  surely 
will  be  some  way  out.  I  can  help, — weak  as  I  am.  It  is 
a  pity,  and  you  so  young." 

She  was  looking  fixedly  at  him,  and  he  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  soft,  and  dark,  and  sad  in  their  expression,  as 
if  for  them  there  was  no  brightness  or  sunshine  in  all  the 
wide  world, — nothing  but  the  never-ending  dish-washing 
in  the  kitchen,  or  serving  in  the  parlor.  But  there  was 
another  expression  in  those  sad  eyes,  a  look  of  truth  and 
honesty,  which  made  him  feel  intuitively  that  she  was  a 
person  to  be  trusted  even  to  the  death,  and  had  he  felt 
any  misgivings  then,  he  would  have  told  her  so  unhesi- 
tatingly ;  but  he  had  none,  and  he  answered  her  : 

"I  do  not  wish  to  get  out  of  it,  Agnes, I  am  satisfied; 
only  it  must  be  a  secret  for  a  long,  long  time.  Remem- 
ber that,  and  your  promise  not  to  tell." 

"Yes,  I'll  remember,  and  may  God  help  you  !"  she 
answered,  as  she  turned  away,  leaving  him  to  wonder  at 
her  manner,  which  puzzled  and  troubled  him  a  little. 
But  it  surely  had  nothing  to  do  with  Josephine,  who 


THE    FORREST    HOUSE.  27 

came  to  him  just  before  he  left  for  the  train,  and  said  so 
charmingly  and  tearfully  : 

"  I  am  so  mortified  and  ashamed  when  I  remember 
how  eagerly  I  seemed  to  respond  to  Dr.  Matthewson's 
proposition  that  we  be  married  in  earnest.  You  must 
have  thought  me  so  forward  and  bold  ;  but,  believe  me, 
I  did  not  mean  it,  or  consider  what  I  was  saying  ;  so 
when  you  are  gone  don't  think  of  me  as  a  brazen-faced 
creature  who  asked  you  to  marry  her,  will  you  ?" 

What  answer  could  he  give  her  except  to  assure  her 
that  he  esteemed  her  as  everything  lovely  and  good,  and 
he  believed  that  he  did  when  at  last  he  said  good-by,  and 
left  her  kissing  her  hand  to  him  as  she  stood  in  the  door- 
way under  the  spreading  hop  vine,  the  summer  sunshine 
falling  in  flecks  upon  her  golden  hair,  and  her  blue  eyes 
full  of  tears.  So  he  saw  her  last,  and  this  was  the  pic- 
ture he  took  with  him  as  he  sped  away  to  the  westward 
toward  his  home,  and  which  helped  to  stifle  his  judgment 
and  reason  whenever  they  protested  against  what  he  had 
done,  but  it  could  not  quite  smother  the  fear  and  dread 
at  his  heart  when  he  reflected  what  the  consequences  of 
this  rash  marriage  would  be  should  his  father  find  it  out. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  FORREST  HOUSE. 

UST  where  it  was  located  is  not  my  purpose  to 
tell,  except  that  it  was  in  the  southern  part 
of  Ohio,  in  one  of  those  pretty  little  towns 
which  skirt  the  river,  and  that  from  the  bluff 
on  which  it  stood  you  could  look  across  the 
water  into  the  green  fields  and  fertile  plains  of  the  fair 
State  of  Kentucky. 

It  was  a  large,  rambling  house  of  dark  gray  stone, 
with  double  piazza  on  the  front  and  river  side,  and  huge 
chimneys,  with  old-time  fire-places,  where  cheery  wood 
fires  burned  always  when  the  wind  was  chill.  There  was 
the  usual  wide  hall  of  the  South,  with  doors  opening 


28  THE    FORREST    HOUSE. 

front  and  rear,  and  on  one  side  the  broad  oak  staircase 
and  square  landing  two-thirds  of  the  way  up,  where  stood 
the  tall,  old-fashioned  clock,  which  had  ticked  there  for 
fifty  years,  and  struck  the  hour  when  the  first  Forrest, 
the  father  of  the  present  proprietor,  brought  home  his 
bride,  a  fair  Southern  girl,  who  drooped  and  pined 
in  her  Northern  home  until  her  husband  took  her 
back  to  her  native  city,  Charleston,  where  she  died  when 
her  boy  was  born.  This  boy,  the  father  of  our  hero,  was 
christened  James  Everard,  in  the  grim  old  church,  St. 
Michael's,  and  the  years  of  his  boyhood  were  passed  in 
Charleston,  except  on  the  few  occasions  when  he  visited  his 
father,  who  lived  at  Forrest  House  without  other  compan- 
ionship than  his  horses  and  dogs,  and  the  bevy  of  black 
servants  he  had  brought  from  the  South. 

When  James  was  nearly  twenty-one  his  father  died, 
and  then  the  house  was  closed  until  the  heir  was  married, 
and  came  to  it  with  a  sweet,  pale-faced  Bostonian,  of 
rare  culture  and  refinement,  who  introduced  into  her  new 
home  many  of  the  fashions  and  comforts  of  New  Eng- 
land, and  made  the  house  very  attractive  to  the  educated 
families  in  the  neighborhood. 

Between  the  lady  and  her  husband,  however,  there 
was  this  point  of  difference  ; — while  she  would,  if  pos- 
sible, have  changed,  and  improved,  and  modernized  the 
house,  he  clung  to  everything  savoring  of  the  past,  and 
though  liberal  in  his  expenditures  where  his  table,  and 
wines,  and  horses,  and  servants  were  concerned,  he  held 
a  tight  purse-string  when  it  came  to  what  he  called  lux- 
uries of  any  kind.  What  had  been  good  enough  for  his 
father  was 'good  enough  for  him,  he  said,  when  his  wife 
proposed  new  furniture  for  the  rooms  which  looked  so 
bare  and  cheerless.  Matting  and  oil-cloth  were  better 
than  carpets  for  his  muddy  boots  and  muddier  dogs, 
while  curtains  and  shades  were  nuisances  and  only  served 
to  keep  out  the  light  of  heaven.  There  were  blinds  at  all 
the  windows,  and  if  his  wife  wished  for  anything  more 
she  could  hang  up  her  shawl  or  apron  when  she  was  dress- 
ing and  afraid  of  being  seen. 

He  did,  however,  give  her  five  hundred  dollars  to  do 
with  as  she  pleased,  and  with  that  and  her  exquisite  taste 
and  Yankee  ingenuity,  she  transformed  a  few  of  the  dark, 
piusty  old  rooms  into  the  coziest,  prettiest  apartments 


TEE    FORREST    HOUSE.  29 

imaginable,  and,  with  the  exception  of  absolutely  neces- 
sary repairs  and  supplies,  that  was  the  last,  so  far  as  ex- 
penditures for  furniture  were  concerned. 

As  the  house  had  been  when  James  Everard,  Jr.,  was 
born,  so  it  was  now  when  he  was  twenty  years  old.  But 
what  it  lacked  in  its  interior  adornments  was  more  than 
made  up  in  the  grounds,  which  covered  a  space  of  three 
or  four  acres,  and  were  beautiful  in  the  extreme. 

Here  the  judge  lavished  his  money  without  stint,  and 
people  came  from  miles  around  to  see  the  place,  which 
was  at  its  best  that  warm  July  morning  when,  tired  and 
worn  with  his  rapid  journey,  Everard  entered  the  high- 
way gate,  and  walked  up  the  road  to  the  house,  under 
the  tall  maples  which  formed  an  arch  over  his  head. 

It  was  very  still  about  the  house,  and  two  or  three 
dogs  lay  in  the  sunshine  asleep  on  the  piazza.  At  the 
sound  of  footsteps  they  awoke,  and  recognizing  their 
young  master,  ran  toward  him,  with  a  bark  of  welcome. 

The  windows  of  his  mother's  room  were  open,  and  at 
the  bark  of  the  dogs  a  girlish  face  was  visible  for  an  in- 
stant, then  disappeared  from  view,  and  Rosamond  Hast- 
ings came  out  to  meet  him,  looking  very  fresh  and 
sweet  in  her  short  gingham  dress  and  white  apron,  with 
her  rippling  hair  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon,  and  falling 
down  her  back. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Everard,"  she  cried,  as  she  gave  him  her 
hand,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.  Your  mother  has 
wanted  you  so  much.  She  is  a  little  better  this  morn- 
ing, and  asleep  just  now  ;  so  come  in  here  and  rest. 
You  are  tired,  and  worn,  and  pale.  Are  you  sick  ?"  and 
she  looked  anxiously  into  the  handsome  face,  where 
even  she  saw  a  change,  for  the  shadow  of  his  secret  was 
there,  haunting  every  moment  of  his  life. 

"  Xo  ;  I'm  just  used  up,  and  so  hungry,"  he  said,  as 
he  followed  her  into  the  cool  family  room,  looking  out 
upon  the  river,  which  she  had  made  bright  with  flowers 
in  expectation  of  his  coming. 

"  Hungry,  are  you  ?"  she  said.  "  I'm  so  glad,  for 
there's  the  fattest  little  chicken  waiting  to  be  broiled  for 
you,  and  we  have  such  splendid  black  and  white  rasp- 
berries. I'm  going  to  pick  them  now,  while  you  wash 
and  brush  yourself.  You  will  find  everything  ready  in 
your  room,  with  some  curtains,  and  tidies  on  the  chairs. 


30  THE    FORREST    HOUSE. 

I  did  it  myself,  hoping  you'd  find  it  pleasant,  and  stay 
home  all  the  vacation,  even  if  your  mother  gets  better, 
she  is  so  happy  to  have  you  here.  Will  you  go  up 
now  ?" 

He  went  to  the  room  which  had  always  been  his, — a 
large,  airy  chamber,  which,  with  nothing  modern  or 
expensive  in  it,  looked  cool  and  pretty,  with  its  clean 
matting,  snowy  bed,  fresh  muslin  curtains,  and  new  blue 
and  white  tidies  on  the  high-backed  chairs,  all  showing 
Rossie's  handiwork.  Rossie  had  been  in  Miss  Beatrice 
Belknap's  lovely  room  furnished  with  blue,  and  thought 
it  a  little  heaven,  and  tried  her  best  to  make  Sir. 
Everard's  a  blue  room  too,  though  she  had  nothing  to  do 
it  with  except  the  tidies,  and  toilet  set,  and  lambrequins 
made  of  plain  white  muslin  bordered  with  strips  of  blue 
cambric.  The  material  for  this  she  had  bought  with 
her  own  allowance,  at  the  cost  of  some  personal  sacrifice  ; 
and  when  it  was  all  done,  and  the  two  large  blue  vases 
were  filled  with  flowers  and  placed  upon  the  mantel,  she 
felt  that  it  was  almost  equal  to  Miss  Belknap's,  and  that 
Mr.  Everard,  as  she  always  called  him,  was  sure  to  like 
it.  And  he  did  like  it,  and  breathed  more  freely,  as  if  he 
were  in  a  purer,  more  wholesome  atmosphere  than  that 
of  the  brown  house  in  far-off  Holburton,  where  he  had 
left  his  secret  and  his  wife.  It  came  to  him  with  a 
sudden  wrench  of  pain  in  his  quiet  room, — the  difference 
between  Josephine  and  all  his  early  associates  and  sur- 
roundings. She  was  not  like  anything  at  the  Forrest 
House,  though  she  was  marvelously  beautiful  and  fair, — 
so  much  fairer  than  little  Rossie,  whose  white  cape 
bonnet  he  could  see  flitting  among  the  bushes  in  the 
garden,  where  in  the  hot  sunshine  she  soiled  and  pricked 
her  fingers, gathering  berries  for  him.  He  had  a  photo- 
graph of  Josephine,  and  he  took  it  out  and  looked  at  the 
great  blue  eyes  and  fair,  blonde  face,  which  seemed  to 
smile  on  him,  and  saying  to  himself,  "  She  is  very 
lovely,"  went  down  to  the  sitting-room,  where  Rossie 
brought  him  his  breakfast. 

It  was  so  hot  in  the  dining-room,  she  said,  and  Aunt 
Axie  was  so  out  of  sorts  this  morning,  that  she  was 
going  to  serve  his  breakfast  there  in  the  bay  window, 
where  the  breeze  came  cool  from  the  river.  So  she 
brought  in  the  tray  of  dishes,  and  creamed  his  coffee, 


THE    FORREST    HOUSE.  31 

and  sugared  his  berries,  and  carved  his  chicken,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  prince,  and  she  his  lawful  slave. 

At  Mrs.  Fleming's  he  had  also  been  treated  like  a 
prince,  but  there  it  was  lame  Agnes  who  served,  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  up,  and  Josephine  had  acted  the  part  of  the 
fine  lady,  and  never  to  his  recollection  had  she  soiled  her 
hands  with  household  work  of  any  kind.  How  soft  and 
white  they  were, — while  Rossie's  hands  were  thin  and 
tanned  from  exposure  to  the  sun,  and  stained  and 
scratched,  with  a  rag  around  one  thumb  which  a  cruel 
thorn  had  torn  ;  but  what  deft,  nimble  hands  they  were, 
nevertheless,  and  how  gladly  they  waited  upon  this 
tired,  indolent  young  man,  who  took  it  as  a  matter  of 
course,  for  had  not  Rossie  Hastings  ministered  to  him 
since  she  was  old  enough  to  hunt  up  his  missing  cap,  and 
bring  him  the  book  he  was  reading.  Now,  as  she  flitted 
about,  urging  him  to  eat,  she  talked  to  him  incessantl}T, 
asking  if  he  had  received  her  letter  and  its  contents 
safely, — it  it  was  very  pleasant  at  Ellicottville  with  his 
friend  Stafford,  and  if, — she  did  not  finish  that  question, 
but  her  large  black  eyes,  clear  as  crystal,  looked  anx- 
iously at  him,  and  he  knew  what  she  meant. 

"No,  Rossie,"  he  said,  laughingly,  "I  do  not  owe 
a  dollar  to  anybody,  except  your  dear  little  self,  and  that 
I  mean  to  pay  with  compound  interest;  and  I  haven't 
been  in  a  single  scrape, — that  is,  not  a  very  bad  one, 
since  I  went  back  ;"  and  a  flush  crept  to  the  roots  of  his 
hair  as  he  wondered  what  Rosamond  would  think  if  she 
knew  just  the  scrape  he  was  in. 

And  why  should  she  not  know?  Why  didn't  he  tell 
her,  and  have  her  help  him  keep  the  secret  tormenting 
him  so  sorely  ?  He  knew  he  could  trust  her,  for  he  had 
done  so  many  a  time  and  she  had  not  betrayed  him,  but 
stood  bravely  between  him  and  his  irascible  father,  who, 
forgetting  that  he  once  was  young,  was  sometimes  hard 
and  severe  with  his  wayward  son.  Yes,  he  would  tell 
Rossie,  and  so  make  a  friend  for  Josephine,  but  before 
he  had  decided  how  to  begin,  Rosamond  said  : 

"I'm  so  glad  you  are  doing  better,  for "  here  she 

hesitated  and  colored  painfully,  while  Everard  said  : 

"  Well,  go  on.  What  is  it  ?  Do  yon  mean  the  gov- 
ernor rides  a  high  horse  on  account  of  my  misdemean- 
ors ?" 


32  THE    FORREST    HOUSE. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Everard,  just  that.  Ho  is  dreadful  when 
you  write  for  more  money,  which  he  says  you  squander 
on  cigars,  and  fast  horses,  and  fine  clothes,  and  girls' 
he  actually  said  girls,  but  ray, — your  mother  told  him  she 
knew  you  were  not  the  kind  of  person  to  think  of  girls, 
and  you  so  young  ;  absurd  !" 

And  Rossie  pursed  up  her  little  mouth  as  if  it  were 
a  perfectly  preposterous  idea  for  Everard  Forrest  to  be 
thinking  of  the  girls  ! 

The  young  man  laughed  a  low,  musical  laugh,  and 
replied,  "I  don't  know  about  that.  I  should  say  it  was 
just  in  rny  line.  There  are  ever  so  many  pretty  girls  in 
"Ellicottville  and  Holburton,  and  one  of  them  is  so  very 
beautiful  that  I'm  half  tempted  to  run  away  with  and 
marry  her.  What  would  you  think  of  that,  Rossie  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  matter-of-fact  Rossie  looked  at 
him  curiously,  and  then  replied  : 

"I  should  think  you  crazy,  and  you  not  through 
college.  I  believe  your  father  would  disinherit  you,  and 
serve  you  right,  too." 

"  And  you,  Rossie  ;  wouldn't  you  stand  by  me  and 
help  me  if  I  got  into  such  a  muss  ?" 

"  Never  !"  and  Rossie  spoke  with  all  the  decision  and 
dignity  of  thirty.  "  It  would  kill  your  mother,  too.  I 
sometimes  think  she  means  you  for  Miss  Belknap;  she  is 
so  handsome  this  summer  !" 

"  Without  her  hair  ?"  Everard  asked,  and  Rossie 
replied,  "  Yes,  without  her  hair.  She  has  a  wig,  but 
does  not  quite  like  it.  She  means  to  get  another." 

"And  she  offered  fifty  dollars  for  your  hair  !"  Ever- 
ard continued,  stroking  with  his  hand  the  chestnut 
brown  tresses  flowing  down  Rossie's  back. 

"Yes,  she  did;  but  I  could  not  part  with  my  hair 
even  to  oblige  her.  Of  course  I  should  give  it  to  her, 
not  sell  it,  but  I  can't  spare  it." 

What  an  unselfish  child  she  was,  Everard  thought, 
and  yet  she  was  so  unlike  the  golden-haired  Josephine, 
who  would  make  fun  of  such  a  plain,  simple,  unformed 
girl  as  Rosamond,  and  call  her  green  and  awkward  and 
countrified;  and  perhaps  she  was  all  these,  but  she  was 
so  good,  and  pure,  and  truthful  that  he  felt  abashed  be- 
fore her  and  shrank  from  the  earnest,  truthful  eyes  that 


THE    FORRE8T    HOUSE.  33 

rested  so  proudly  on  him,  lest  they  should  read  more  than 
he  cared  to  have  them. 

Outside,  in  the  hall,  there  was  the  sound  of  a  heavy 
step,  and  the  next  moment  there  appeared  in  the  door 
a  tall,  heavily-built  man  of  fifty,  with  iron-gray  hair  and 
keen,  restless  eyes,  which  always  seemed  on  the  alert  to 
discover  something  hidden,  and  drag  it  to  the  light. 
Judge  Forrest  meant  to  be  a  just  man,  but,  like  many 
just  men,  when  the  justice  is  not  tempered  with  mercy, 
he  was  harsh  and  hard  with  those  who  did  not  come  up 
to  his  standard  of  integrity,  and  seldom  made  allow- 
ances for  one's  youth  or  inexperience,  or  the  peculiar 
temptations  which  might  have  assailed  them.  Though 
looked  up  to  as  the  great  man  of  the  town,  he  was  far  less 
popular  with  the  people  of  Rothsay  than  his  scamp  of  a 
son,  with  whom  they  thought  him  unnecessarily  strict 
and  close.  It  was  well  known  that  there  was  generally 
trouble  between  them  and  always  on  the  money  question, 
for  Everard  was  a  spendthrift,  and  scattered  his  dollars 
right  and  left  with  a  reckless  generosity  and  thoughtless- 
ness, while  the  judge  was  the  reverse,  and  gave  out  every 
cent  not  absolutely  needed  with  an  unwillingness  which 
amounted  to  actual  stinginess.  And  now  he  stood  at 
the  door,  tall,  grand-looking,  and  cold  as  an  icicle,  and 
his  first  greeting  was  : 

"  I  thought  I  should  track  you  by  the  tobacco  smoke  ; 
they  told  me  you  were  here.  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?" 

It  was  strange  the  effect  that  voice  had  upon  Ever- 
ard, who,  from  an  indolent,  care-for-nothing,  easy-going 
youth  was  transformed  into  a  circumspect,  dignified 
young  man,  who  rose  at  once,  and,  taking  his  father's 
hand,  said  that  he  was  very  well,  had  come  on  the  morn- 
ing train  from  Cleveland,  and  had  started  as  soon  as  he 
could  after  receiving  the  telegram. 

"It  must  have  been  delayed,  then.  You  ought  to 
have  had  it  Wednesday  morning,"  Judge  Forrest  replied: 
and  blushing  like  a  girl  Everard  said  that  it  did  reach 
Ellicottville  Wednesday,  but  he  was  in  Holburton,  just 
over  the  line  in  New  York. 

"  And  what  were  you  doing  at  Holburton  ?"  the 
father  asked,  always  suspicious  of  some  new  trick  or 
escapade  for  which  he  would  have  to  pay. 

"  I  was  invited  there  to  an  entertainment,"  Everard 

2* 


34  THE    FORREST    HOUSE. 

said,  growing  still  redder  and  more  confused.  "You 
know  I  boarded  there  a  few  weeks  last  summer,  and  have 
acquaintances,  so  I  went  down  the  night  before,  and 
Stafford  came  the  next  day  and  brought  the  telegram, 
but  did  not  tell  me  till  the  play  was  over  and  we  were 
in  our  room;  then  it  was  too  late,  but  I  took  the  first 
train  in  the  morning.  I  hope  my  delay  has  not  made 
mother  worse.  I  am  very  sorry,  sir." 

He  had  made  his  explanation,  which  his  father  ac- 
cepted without  a  suspicion  of  the  chasm  bridged  over  in 
silence. 

"  You  have  seen  your  mother,  of  course,"  was  his 
next  remark,  and,  still  apologetically,  nay,  almost  ab- 
jectly, for  Everard  was  terribly  afraid  of  his  father,  he 
replied,  "She  was  sleeping  when  I  came,  and  Rossie 
thought  I'd  better  not  disturb  her,  but  have  my  breakfast 
first.  I  have  finished  now,  and  will  go  to  her  at  once  if 
she  is  awake." 

He  had  put  Rossie  in  the  gap,  knowing  that  she  was 
a  tower  of  strength  between  himself  and  his  father. 
During  the  years  she  had  been  in  the  family  Rossie  had 
become  very  dear  to  the  cold,  stern  judge,  who  was 
kinder  and  'gentler  to  her  than  to  any  living  being, 
except,  indeed,  his  dying  wife,  to  whom  he  was,  in  his 
way,  sincerely  attached. 

"Yes,  very  right  and  proper  that  you  should  have 
your  breakfast  first,  and  not  disturb  her.  Rossie,  see  if 
she  is  now  awake,"  he  said,  and  in  his  voice  there  was  a 
kindliness  which  Everard  was  quick  to  note,  and  which 
made  his  pulse  beat  more  naturally,  while  there  suddenly 
woke  within  him  an  intense  desire  to  stand  well  with  his 
father,  between  whom  and  himself  there  had  been  so 
much  variance. 

For  Josephine's  sake  he  must  have  his  father's  good 
opinion,  or  he.  was  ruined,  and  though  it  cost  him  a  tre- 
mendous effort  to  do  so,  the  moment  Rosamond  left  the 
room,  he  said  :  "Father,  I  want  to  tell  you  now,  because 
I  think  you  will  be  glad  to  know,  that  I've  come  home 
and  left  no  debt,  however  small,  for  you  to  pay.  And  I 
mean  to  do  better.  I  really  do,  father,  and  quit  my  fast 
associates,  and  study  so  hard  that  when  I  am  graduated 
you  and  mother  will  be  proud  of  me." 

The  flushed,  eager  face,  on  which,  young  as  it  was, 


THE    FORREST    HOUSE.  35 

there  were  marks  of  revels  and  dissipation,  was  very 
handsome  and  winning,  and  the  dark  eyes  were  moist 
with  tears  as  the  boy  finished  his  confession,  which  told 
visibly  upon  the  father. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  son.  I'm  glad;  I'm  glad;  but  your 
poor  mother  will  not  be  here  when  you  graduate.  She  is 
going  from  us  fast." 

And  under  cover  of  the  dying  mother's  name,  the 
judge  vailed  his  own  emotions  of  softening  toward 
Everard,  whose  heart  was  lighter  and  happier  than  it  had 
been  since  that  night  when  Matthewson's  voice  had  said, 
"  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife."  And  he  would  be  a 
man  worthy  of  the  wife,  and  his  mother  should  live  to 
see  it,  and  to  see  Josephine,  too,  and  love  her  as  a  daugh- 
ter. She  was  not  dying;  she  must  not  die,  when  he 
needed  and  loved  her  so  much,  he  thought,  as,  at  a  word 
from  Rosamond,  he  went  to  the  sick  room  where  his 
mother  lay.  What  a  sweet,  dainty  little  woman  she  was, 
with  such  a  lovely  expression  on  the  exquisitely  chiseled 
features,  and  how  the  soft  brown  eyes,  so  like  the  son's, 
brightened  at  the  sight  of  her  boy,  who  did  not  shrink 
from  her  as  he  did  from  his  father.  She  knew  all  his 
faults,  and  that  under  them  there  was  a  noble,  manly 
nature,  and  she  loved  him  so  much. 

"  Oh,  Everard  !  "  she  cried,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
come.  I  feared  once  I  should  never  see  you  again." 

He  had  his  arms  around  her,  and  was  kissing  her 
white  face,  which,  for  the  moment,  glowed  with  what 
seemed  to  be  the  hue  of  health,  and  so  misled  him  into 
thinking  her  better  than  she  was. 

"  Now  that  I  have  come,  mother,  you  will  be  well 
again,"  he  said,  hanging  fondly  over  her,  and  looking 
into  the  dear  face  which  had  never  worn  a  frown  for 
him. 

"  No,  Everard,"  she  said,  as  her  wasted  fingers 
threaded  his  luxuriant  hair,  "  I  shall  never  be  well  again. 
It's  only  now  a  matter  of  time  ;  a  few  days  or  weeks  at 
the  most,  and  I  shall  be  gone  from  here  forever,  to  that 
better  home,  where  I  pray  Heaven  you  will  one  day  meet 
me.  Hush,  hush,  my  child  ;  don't  cry  like  that,"  she 
added,  soothingly,  for,  struck  with  the  expression  on  her 
white,  pinched  face,  from  which  all  the  color  had  faded, 
and  which  told  him  the  truth  more  forcibly  than  she  had 


36  THE    FORREST    HOUSE. 

done,  Everard  had  felt  suddenly  that  his  mother  was 
going  from  him,  and  nothing  in  all  the  wide  world  could 
ever  fill  her  place. 

Laying  his  head  upon  her  pillow  he  sobbed  a  few 
moments  like  a  child,  while  the  memory  of  all  the  errors 
of  his  past  life,  all  his  waywardness  and  folly,  rushed 
into  his  mind  like  a  mountain,  crushing  him  with  its  mag- 
nitude. But  he  was  going  to  do  better  ;  he  had  told  his 
father  so  ;  he  would  tell  it  to  his  mother  ;  and  God  would 
not  let  her  die,  but  give  her  back  to  him  as  a  kind  of  re- 
ward for  his  reformation.  So  he  reasoned,  and  with  the 
hopefulness  of  youth  grew  calm,  and  could  listen  to  what 
his  mother  was  saying  to  him.  She  was  asking  him  of 
his  visit  in  Ellicottville,  and  if  he  had  found  it  pleasant 
there,  just  as  Rossie  had  done,  and  he  told  her  of  the 
play  in  Holburton,  but  for  which  he  should  have  been 
with  her  sooner,  and  told  her  of  his  complete  reform,  he 
called  it,  although  it  had  but  just  begun.  He  had  ab- 
jured forever  all  his  wild  associates  ;  he  had  kept  out  of 
debt  ;  he  was  going  to  study  and  win  the  first  honors  of 
his  class  ;  he  was  going  to  be  a  man  worthy  of  such  a 
mother.  And  she,  the  mother,  listening  rapturously, 
believed  it  all ;  that  is,  believed  in  the  noble  man  he 
would  one  day  be,  though  she  knew  there  would  be  many 
a  slip,  many  a  backward  step,  but  in  the  end  he  would 
conquer,  and  from  the  realms  of  bliss  she  might,  perhaps, 
be  permitted  to  look  down  and  see  him  all  she  hoped  him 
to  be.  Over  and  above  all  he  said  to  her  was  a  thought 
of  Josephine.  His  mother  ought  to  know  of  her,  and  he 
must  tell  her,  but  not  in  the  first  moments  of  meeting. 
He  would  wait  till  to-morrow,  and  then  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it. 

He  wrote  to  Josephine  that  night  just  a  few  brief 
lines,  to  tell  her  of  his  safe  arrival  home  and  of  his 
mother's  illness,  more  serious  than  he  feared. 

"  My  dear  little  wife,"  he  began.  "  It  seems  so  funny 
to  call  you  wife,  and  I  cannot  yet  quite  realize  that  you 
are  mine,  but  I  suppose  it  is  true.  I  reached  home  this 
morning  quite  overcome  with  the  long,  dusty  ride  ;  found 
mother  worse  than  I  expected.  Josie,  I  am  afraid  mother 
is  going  to  die,  and  then  what  shall  I  do,  and  who  will 
stand  between  me  and  father.  I  mean  to  tell  her  of 


BEATRICE     BELKNAP.  37 

you,  for  I  think  it  will  not  be  right  to  let  her  die  in 
ignorance  of  what  I  have  done,  i  hope  you  are  well. 
Please  write  to  me  very  soon.  With  kind  regards  to 
your  mother  and  Agnes, 

"Your  loving  husband, 

"  J.  EVEBARD  FORREST." 

It  was  not  just  the  style  of  letter  which  young  and 
ardent  husbands  usually  write  to  their  brides  ;  nor,  in 
fact,  such  as  Everard  had  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  to 
Josephine,  and  the  great  difference  struck  him  as  he 
read  over  his  rather  stiff  note,  and  mentally  compared  it 
with  the  gushing  effusions  of  other  times. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  said,  "  I'm  afraid  she  will  think  I 
have  fallen  off  amazingly,  but  I  haven't.  I'm  only  tired 
to-night.  To-morrow  I'll  send  her  a  regular  love-letter 
after  I  have  told  mother  ;"  and  thus  reasoning  to  him- 
self, he  folded  the  letter  and  directed  it  to — 

"  Miss  JOSEPHINE  FLEMING,  Holburton,  N.  Y." 


CHAPTER  V. 
BEATRICE  BELKNAP. 

HAT  afternoon  Miss  Beatrice  Belknap  drove 
her  pretty  black  ponies  up  the  avenue  to  the 
Forrest  House.  Miss  Beatrice,  or  Bee,  as  she 
was  familiarly  called  by  those  who  knew  her 
best,  was  an  orphan  and  an  heiress,  and  a  belle 
and  a  beauty,  and  twenty-one,  and  a  distant  relative  of  Mrs. 
Forrest,  whom  she  called  Cousin  Mary.  People  said  she 
was  a  little  fast  and  a  little  peculiar  in  her  ways  of  think- 
ing and  acting,  but  charged  it  all  to  the  French  educa- 
tion she  had  received  in  Paris,  where  she  had  lived  from 
the  time  she  was  six  until  she  was  eighteen,  when,  ac- 
cording to  her  father's  will,  she  came  into  possession  of 
her  large  fortune,  and  returning  to  America  came  to 
Rothsay,  her  old  home,  and  brought  with  her  all  her 


38  BEATRICE    BELKNAP. 

dash  and  style,  and  originality  of  thought  and  character, 
and  the  Rothsayites  received  her  gladly,  and  were  very 
proud  and  fond  of  her,  for  there  was  about  the  bright 
girl  a  sweet  graciousness  of  manner  which  won  all  hearts, 
even  though  they  knew  she  was  bored  with  their  quiet 
town  and  humdrum  manner  of  living,  and  that  at  their 
backs  she  laughed  at  their  dress,  and  talk,  and  walk,  and 
sometimes,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  laughed  at  their  prayers 
too,  especially  when  good  old  Deacon  Read  or  Sister 
Baker  took  the  lead  in  the  little  chapel  on  the  corner, 
where  Bee  was  occasionally  to  be  seen.  Bee  had  no 
preference  for  any  church  unless  it  were  St.  Peter's,  in 
Rome,  or  St.  Eustace,  in  Paris,  where  the  music  was  so 
fine  and  some  of  the  young  priests  so  handsome.  So  she 
went  where  she  listed,  kneeling  one  Sunday  in  the  square 
pew  at  St.  John's,  where  her  father  had  worshiped  before 
her,  and  where  she  had  been  baptized,  and  the  Sunday 
following  patronizing  the  sect  called  the  Nazarites,  be- 
cause, as  she  expressed  it,  "she  liked  the  excitement  and 
liked  to  hear  them  holler"  And  once  the  daring  girl 
had  ''hollered"  herself  and  had  the  "power,"  and  Sister 
Baker  had  rejoiced  over  the  new  convert  who,  she  said, 
"carried  with  her  weight  and  measure  !"  but  when  it  was 
whispered  about  that  the  whole  was  done  for  effect,  just 
to  see  what  they  would  say,  the  Nazarites  gave  poor  Bee 
the  go-by,  and  prayed  for  her  as  that  wicked  tritter  until 
it  came  to  the  building  of  their  new  church,  when  Bee, 
who  was  a  natural  carpenter,  and  liked  nothing  better 
than  lath,  and  plaster,  and  rubbish,  made  the  cause  her 
own,  and  talked,  and  consulted,  and  paced  the  ground 
and  drew  a  plan  herself,  which  they  finally  adopted,  and 
gave  them  a  thousand  dollars  besides.  Then  they  for- 
gave the  pretty  sinner,  who  had  so  much  good  in  her 
after  all,  and  Bee  and  Sister  Rhoda  Ann  Baker  were  the 
very  best  of  friends,  and  more  than  once  Rhoda  Ann's 
plain  Nazarite  bonnet  had  been  seen  in  the  little  phaeton 
side  by  side  with  Bee's  stylish  Paris  hat,  on  which  the 
good  woman  scarcely  dared  to  look  lest  it  should  move 
her  from  her  serene  height  of  plainness  and  humility. 

In  spite  of  her  faults,  Beatrice  was  very  popular,  and 
nowhere  was  she  more  welcome  than  at  the  Forrest 
House,  where  she  was  beloved  by  Mrs.  Forrest  and  wor- 
shiped by  Rossie  as  a  kind  of  divinity,  though  she  did 


BEATRICE    BELKNAP.  39 

not  quite  like  all  she  did  and  said.  Offers,  many  and 
varied,  Beatrice  had  had,  both  at  home  and  abroad.  She 
might  have  been  the  wife  of  a  senator.  She  might  have 
married  her  music-teacher  and  her  dancing-master.  She 
might  have  been  a  missionary  and  taught  the  Feegee  Is- 
landers how  to  read.  She  might  have  been  a  countess  in 
Rome,  a  baroness  in  Germany,  and  my  lady  in  Edin- 
burgh, but  she  had  said  no  to  them  all,  and  felt  the  hard- 
est wrench  when  she  said  it  to  the  Feegee  missionary, 
and  for  aught  anybody  knew,  was  heart-whole  and  fancy- 
free  when  she  alighted  from  her  phaeton  at  the  door  of 
Forrest  House  the  morning  after  Everard's  arrival.  She 
knew  he  was  there,  and  with  the  spirit  of  coquetry  so 
much  a  part  of  herself  she  had  made  her  toilet  with  a 
direct  reference  to  this  young  man  whom  she  had  not 
seen  for  more  than  a  year,  and  who,  when  joked  about 
marrying  her,  had  once  called  her  old  J2ee  JBelfcnap,  and 
wondered  if  any  one  supposed  he  would  marry  his 
grandmother. 

Miss  Bee  had  smiled  sweetly  on  this  audacious  boy 
who  called  her  old  and  a  grandmother,  and  had  laid  a 
wager  with  herself  that  he  should  some  day  offer  him- 
self to  "old  Bee  Belknap,"  and  be  refused  !  In  case  he 
didn't  she  would  build  a  church  in  Omaha  and  support  a 
missionary  there  five  years  !  She  was  much  given  to 
building  churches  and  supporting  missionaries, — this 
sprightly,  dashing  girl  of  twenty-one,  who  flashed,  and 
sparkled,  and  shone  in  the  summer  sunshine,  like  a  dia- 
mond, as  she  threw  her  reins  over  the  backs  of  her  two 
ponies,  Spitfire  and  Starlight,  and  giving  each  of  them 
a  loving  caress  bade  them  stand  still  and  not  whisk  their 
tails  too  much  even  if  the  flies  did  bite  them.  Then, 
with  ribbons  and  laces  streaming  from  her  on  all  sides, 
she  went  fluttering  up  the  steps  and  into  the  broad  hall 
where  Everard  met  her. 

Between  him  and  herself  there  had  been  a  strong 
friendship  since  the  time  she  first  came  from  France,  and 
queened  it  over  him  on  the  strength  of  her  foreign  style 
and  a  year's  seniority  in  age.  From  the  very  first  she 
had  been  much  at  the  Forrest  House,  and  had  played 
with  Everard,  and  romped  with  him,  and  read  with  him, 
and  driven  with  him,  and  rowed  with  him  upon  the  river, 
and  quarreled  with  him,  too, — hot,  fierce  quarrels, — in 


40  BEATEICE    BELKNAP. 

which  the  girl  generally  had  the  best  of  it,  inasmuch  as 
her  voluble  French,  which  she  hurled  at  him  with  light- 
ning rapidity,  had  stunned  and  bewildered  him  ;  and 
then  they  had  made  it  up,  and  were  the  best  of  friends, 
and  more  than  one  of  the  knowing  ones  in  Rothsay  had 
predicted  a  union  some  day  of  the  Forrest  and  Belknap 
fortunes.  Once,  when  such  a  possibility  was  hinted  to 
Everard,  who  was  fresh  from  a  hot  skirmish  with  Bee, 
he  had,  as  recorded,  called  her  old,  and  made  mention  of 
his  grandmother,  and  she  had  sworn  to  be  revenged,  and 
was  conscious  all  the  time  of  a  greater  liking  for  the 
heir  of  Forrest  House  than  she  had  felt  for  any  man 
since  the  Feegee  missionary  sailed  away  with  his  Ver- 
mont school-mistress,  who  wore  glasses,  and  a  brown 
alpaca  dress.  Bee  could  have  forgiven  the  glasses,  but 
the  brown  alpaca, — never,  and  she  pitied  the  missionary 
more  than  ever,  thinking  how  he  must  contrast  her  Paris 
gowns,  which  he  had  said  were  so  pretty,  with  that 
abominable  brown  garb  of  his  bride. 

Everard  had  never  quite  fancied  the  linking  of  his 
name  with  that  of  Beatrice  in  a  matrimonial  way,  and  it 
had  sometimes  led  him  to  assume  an  indifference  which 
he  did  not  feel,  but  now,  with  Josephine  between  them 
as  an  insurmountable  barrier,  he  could  act  out  his  real 
feelings  of  genuine  liking  for  the  gay  butterfly,  and  he 
met  her  with  an  unusual  degree  of  cordiality,  which  she 
was  quick  to  note  just  as  she  had  noted  another  change 
in  him.  A  skillful  reader  of  the  human  face,  she  looked 
in  Everard's,  and  saw  something  she  could  not  define. 
It  was  the  shadow  of  his  secret,  and  she  could  not  inter- 
pret it.  She  only  felt  that  he  was  no  longer  a  boy,  but 
a  man,  old  even  as  his  years,  and  that  he  was  very  glad 
to  see  her,  and  looked  his  gladness  to  the  full.  Bee 
Belknap  was  a  born  coquette,  and  would  have  flirted  in 
her  coffin  had  the  thing  been  possible,  and  now,  during 
the  moment  she  stood  in  the  hall  with  her  hand  in  Ever- 
ard's, she  managed  to  make  him  understand  how  greatly 
improved  she  found  him,  how  delighted  she  was  to  see 
him,  and  how  inexpressibly  dull  and  poky  Rothsay  was 
without  him.  She  did  not  say  all  this  in  words,  but  she 
conveyed  it  to  him  with  graceful  gestures  of  her  pretty 
hands,  and  sundry  expressive  shrugs  of  her  shoulders, 
and  Everard  felt  flattered  and  pleased,  and  for  a  few 


BEATRICE     BELKNAP.  41 

moments  forgot  Josephine,  while  he  watched  this  bril- 
liant creature  as  she  flitted  into  the  sick  room,  where  her 
manner  suddenly  changed,  and  she  became  quiet,  and 
gentle,  and  womanly,  as  she  sat  down  by  his  mother's 
side,  and  asked  how  she  was,  and  stroked  and  fondled 
the  thin,  pale  face,  and  petted  the  wasted  hands  which 
sought  hers  so  gladly.  Bee  Belknap  always  did  sick 
people  good,  and  there  was  not  a  sick  bed  in  all  Rothsay, 
from  the  loftiest  dwelling  to  the  lowest  tenant  house, 
which  she  did  not  visit,  making  the  rich  ones  more  hope- 
ful and  cheerful  from  the  effect  of  her  strong,  sympa- 
thetic nature,  and  dazzling,  and  bewildering,  and  grati- 
fying the  poor,  with  whom  she  often  left  some  tangible 
proof  of  her  presence. 

"  You  do  me  so  much  good  ;  I  am  always  better  after 
one  of  your  calls,"  Mrs.  Forrest  said  to  her ;  and  then, 
when  Bee  arose  to  go,  and  said,  "  May  I  take  Everard 
with  me  for  a  short  drive?"  she  answered  readily  :  "Yes, 
do,  I  shall  be  glad  for  him  to  get  the  air." 

And  so  Everard  found  himself  seated  at  Beatrice's 
side,  and  whirling  along  the  road  toward  the  village,  for 
he  wished  to  post  his  letter,  and  asked  her  to  take  him 
first  to  the  post-office. 

"  What  would  she  say  if  she  knew?"  he  thought,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  letter  in  his  pocket  must  burn 
itself  through  and  show  her  the  name  upon  it. 

And  then  he  fell  to  comparing  the  two  girls  with 
each  other,  and  wondering  why  he  should  feel  so  much 
more  natural,  as  if  in  his  own  atmosphere  and  on  his 
good  behavior,  with  Beatrice  than  he  did  with  Josephine. 
Both  were  beautiful  ;  both  were  piquant  and  bright,  but 
still  there  was  a  difference.  Beatrice  never  for  a  moment 
allowed  him  to  forget  that  she  was  a  lady  and  he  a  gen- 
tleman ;  never  approached  to  anything  like  coarseness, 
and  he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  insulting  his  mother 
as  to  have  taken  the  slightest  familiarity  either  by  word 
or  act  with  Bee.  Josephine,  on  the  contrary,  allowed  great 
latitude  of  word  and  action,  and  by  her  free-and-easy 
manner  often  led  him  into  doing  and  saying  things  for 
which  he  would  have  blushed  with  shame  had  Beatrice, 
or  even  Rossie  Hastings,  been  there  to  see  and  hear. 
Had  Josephine  lived  in  New  York,  or  any  other  city,  she 
would  have  added  one  more  to  that  large  class  of  people 


42  BEATRICE     BELKNAP. 

who  laugh  at  our  time-honored  notions  of  propriety 
and  true,  pure  womanhood,  and  on  the  broad  platform 
of  liberality  and  freedom  sacrifice  all  that  is  sweetest 
and  best  in  their  sex.  As  a  matter  of  course  her  influ- 
ence over  Everard  was  not  good,  and  he  had  imbibed  so 
much  of  the  subtle  poison  that  some  of  his  sensibilities 
were  blunted,  and  he  was  beginning  to  think  that  his 
early  ideas  were  prudish  and  nonsensical.  But  there 
was  something  about  Rosamond  and  Beatrice  both  which 
worked  as  an  antidote  to  the  poison,  and  as  he  rode 
along  with  the  latter,  and  listened  to  her  light,  graceful 
badinage,  in  which  there  was  nothing  approaching  to 
vulgarity,  he  was  conscious  of  feeling  more  respect  for 
himself  than  he  had  felt  in  many  a  day. 

They  had  left  the  village  now,  and  were  out  upon  the 
smooth  river  road,  where  they  came  upon  a  young  M.  D. 
of  Rothsay,  who  was  jogging  leisurely  along  in  his  high 
sulky,  behind  his  old  sorrel  mare.  Beatrice  knew  the 
doctor  well,  and  more  than  once  they  had  driven  side  by 
side  amid  a  shower  of  dust,  along  that  fine,  broad  road, 
and  now,  when  she  saw  him  and  his  sorry-looking  nag, 
the  spirit  of  mischief  and  frolic  awoke  within  her,  and 
she  could  no  more  refrain  from  some  saucy  remark  con- 
cerning his  beast  and  challenging  him  to  a  trial  of  speed 
than  she  could  keep  from  breathing.  Another  moment 
and  they  were  off  like  the  wind,  and  to  Bee's  great  sur- 
prise old  Jenny,  the  sorrel  mare,  who,  in  her  long-past 
youth  had  been  a  racer  and  swept  the  stakes  at  Cincin- 
nati, and  who  now  at  the  sound  of  battle  felt  her  old 
blood  rise,  kept  neck  to  neck  with  the  fleet  horses,  Spit- 
fire and  Starlight.  At  last  old  Jenny  shot  past  them, 
and  in  her  excitement  Beatrice  rose,  and  standing  up- 
right, urged  her  ponies  on  until  Jenny's  wind  gave  out, 
and  Starlight  and  Spitfire  were  far  ahead  and  rushing 
down  the  turnpike  at  a  break-neck  speed,  which  rocked 
the  light  phaeton  from  side  to  side  and  seemed  almost  to 
lift  it  from  the  ground.  It  was  a  decided  runaway  now, 
and  people  stopped  to  look  after  the  mad  horses  and  the 
excited  but  not  in  the  least  frightened  girl,  who,  still 
standing  upright,  with  her  hat  hanging  down  her  back 
and  her  wig  a  little  awry,  kept  them  with  a  firm  hand 
straight  in  the  road,  and  said  to  the  white-faced  man 
beside  her,  when  he,  too,  sprang  up  to  take  the  reins  : 


BEATRICE     BELKNAP.  43 

"  Sit  down  and  keep  quiet.  I'll  see  you  safely  through. 
We  can  surely  ride  as  fast  as  they  can  run.  I  rather 
enjoy  it." 

And  so  she  did  until  they  came  to  a  point  where  the 
road  turned  with  the  river,  and  where  in  the  bend  a  little 
school-house  stood.  It  was  just  recess,  and  a  troop  of 
boys  came  crowding  out,  whooping  and  yelling  as  only 
boys  can  whoop  and  yell,  when  they  saw  the  ponies,  who, 
really  frightened  now,  shied  suddenly,  and  reared  high 
in  the  air.  After  that  came  chaos  and  darkness  to  Ever- 
ard,  and  the  next  he  knew  he  was  lying  on  the  grass, 
with  his  head  in  Bee's  lap,  and  the  blood  flowing  from  a 
deep  gash  in  his  forehead,  just  above  the  left  eye.  This 
she  was  stanching  with  her  handkerchief,  and  bathing 
his  face  with  the  water  the  boys  brought  her  in  a  tin 
dipper  from  the  school-house.  Far  off  in  the  distance 
the  ponies  were  still  running,  and  scattered  at  intervals 
along  the  road  were  fragments  of  the  broken  phaeton, 
together  with  Bee's  bonnet,  and,  worse  than  all,  her  wig. 
But  Bee  did  not  know  that  she  had  lost  it,  or  care  for  her 
ruined  phaeton.  She  did  not  know  or  care  for  anything, 
except  that  Everard  Forrest  was  lying  upon  the  grass  as 
white  and  stiil  as  if  he  were  really  dead.  But  Everard 
was  not  dead,  and  the  doctor,  who  soon  came  up  with 
the  panting,  mortified  Jennie,  said  it  was  only  a  flesh 
wound,  from  which  nothing  serious  would  result.  Then 
Bee  thought  of  her  hair,  which  a  boy  had  rescued  from 
a  playful  puppy  who  was  doing  his  best  to  tear  it  in 
pieces.  The  sight  of  her  wig  made  Bee  herself  again, 
and  with  many  a  merry  joke  at  her  own  expense,  she 
mounted  into  a  farmer's  wagon  with  Everard,  and  bade 
the  driver  take  them  back  to  the  Forrest  House. 

It  was  Rossie  who  met  them  first,  her  black  eyes 
growing  troubled  and  anxious  when  she  saw  the  band- 
age on  Everard's  head.  But  he  assured  her  it  was  noth- 
ing, while  Bee  laughed  over  the  adventure,  and  when 
the  judge  would  have  censured  his  son,  took  all  the 
blame  upon  herself,  and  then,  promising  to  call  again  in 
the  evening,  went  in  search  of  her  truant  horses. 


44  MOTHER    AND    SON. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

MOTHER  AND   SON. 


HAT  afternoon  Mrs.  Forrest  seemed  so  much 
better  that  even  her  husband  began  to  hope, 
when  he  saw  the  color  on  her  cheek,  and  the 
increased  brightness  of  her  eyes.  But  she  was 
not  deceived,  She  knew  the  nature  of  her  dis- 
ease, and  that  she  had  not  long  to  live.  So  what  she  would 
say  to  her  son  must  be  said  without  delay.  According- 
ly, after  lunch,  she  bade  Rossie  send  him  to  her,  and  then 
leave  them  alone  together.  Everard  obeyed  the  sum- 
mons at  once,  though  there  was  a  shrinking  fear  in  his 
heart  as  he  thought,  "  Now  I  must  tell  her  of  Josey," 
and  wondered  what  she  would  say.  Since  his  drive  with 
Beatrice  it  did  not  seem  half  so  easy  to  talk  of  Jose- 
phine, and  that  marriage  ceremony  was  very  far  away, 
and  very  unreal,  too.  His  mother  was  propped  up  on  her 
pillows,  and  smiled  pleasantly  upon  him  as  he  took  his 
seat  beside  her. 

"  Everard,"  she  began,  "  there  are  so  many  things  I 
must  say  to  yqp  about  the  past  and  the  future,  and  I 
must  say  them  now  while  I  have  the  strength.  Another 
day  may  be  too  late." 

He  knew  to  what  she  referred,  and  with  a  protest 
against  it,  told  her  she  was  not  going  to  die  ;  she 
must  not  ;  she  must  live  for  him,  who  would  be  nothing 
without  her. 

Very  gently  she  soothed  him  into  quiet,  and  he  lis- 
tened while  she  talked  of  all  he  had  been,  and  all  she 
wished  him  to  be  in  the  future.  Faithfully,  but  gently, 
she  went  over  with  his  faults,  one  by  one,  beseeching 
him  to  forsake  them,  and  with  a  bursting  heart  he  prom- 
ised everything  which  she  required,  and  told  her  again 
of  the  reform  already  commenced. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  boy,  and  prosper  you  as  you 
keep  this  pledge  to  your  dying  mother,  and  whether  you 
are  great  or  not,  may  you  be  good  and  Christlikc,  and 
come  one  day  to  meet  me  where  sorrow  is  unknown,"  she 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  45 

said  to  him  finally  ;  then,  after  a  pause,  she  continued: 
"  There  is  one  subject  more  of  which,  as  a  woman  and 
your  mother,  I  must  speak  to  you.  Some  day  you  will 
marry,  of  course " 

"  Yes,  mother,"  and  Everard  started  -violently,  while 
the  cold  sweat  stood  in  drops  about  his  lips,  but  he  could 
say  no  more  then,  and  his  mother  continued  :  "  I  have 
thought  many  times  who  and  what  your  wife  would  be, 
and  have  pictured  her  often  to  myself,  and  loved  her  for 
your  sake  ;  but  I  shall  never  see  her,  when  she  comes 
here  I  shall  be  gone,  and  so  I  will  speak  of  her  now, 
and  say  it  is  not  my  wish  that  you  should  wait  many 
years  before  marrying.  I  believe  in  early  marriages, 
where  there  is  mutual  love  and  esteem.  Then  you  make 
allowance  more  readily  for  each  other's  habits  and  pecu- 
liarities. I  mean  no  disrespect  to  your  father,  he  has 
been  kind  to  me,  but  I  think  he  waited  too  long  ;  there 
were  too  many  years  between  us  ;  my  feelings  and  ideas 
were  young,  his  middle-aged  ;  better  begin  alike  for 
perfect  unity.  And,  my  boy,  be  sure  you  marry  a  lady." 

"A  lady,  mother?"  Everard  said,  wondering  if  his 
mother  would  call  Josephine  a  lady. 

"Yes,  Everard,"  she  replied,  "  a  lady  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word,  a  person  of  education  and  refinement,  and 
somewhere  near  your  own  rank  in  life.  I  never  believed 
in  the  Maud  Muller  poem,  never  was  sorry  that  the 
judge  did  not  take  the  maiden  for  his  wife.  He  might, 
perhaps,  never  have  blushed  for  her,  but  he  would  have 
blushed  for  her  family,  and  their  likeness  in  his  children's 
faces  would  have  been  a  secret  annoyance.  I  do  not  say 
that  every  mesalliance  proves  unhappy,  but  it  is  better 
to  marry  your  equal,  if  you  can,  for  a  low-born  person, 
with  low-born  tastes,  will,  of  necessity,  drag  you  down 
to  her  level." 

She  stopped  a  moment  to  rest,  but  Everard  did  not 
speak  for  the  fierce  struggle  in  his  heart.  He  must  tell 
her  of  Josephine,  and  could  he  say  that  she  had  no  low- 
born tastes  ?  Alas,  he  could  not,  when  he  remembered 
things  which  had  dropped  from  her  pretty  lips  so  easily 
and  naturally,  and  at  which  he  had  laughed  as  at  some- 
thing spicy  and  daring.  His  mother  would  call  them 
coarse,  with  all  her  innate  refinement  and  delicacy,  and 
a  shiver  ran  through  him  as  he  seemed  to  hear  again  the 


46  MOTHER    AND    SON. 

words  "  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife."  They  were 
always  ringing  in  his  ears,  louder  sometimes  than  at 
others,  and  now  they  were  so  loud  as  almost  to  drown 
the  low  voice  which  after  a  little  went  on  : 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  parents  selecting  companions  for 
their  children,  but  surely  I  may  suggest.  You  are  not 
obliged  to  follow  my  suggestion.  I  would  have  your 
choice  perfectly  free,"  she  added,  quickly,  as  she  saw  a 
look  of  consternation  on  his  face,  and  mistook  its  mean- 
ing. "  I  have  thought,  and  think  still,  that  were  I  to 
choose  for  you,  it  would  be  Beatrice." 

"Beatrice!  Bee  Belknap  !  mother,"  and  Everard 
fairly  gasped.  "  Bee  Belknap  is  a  great  deal  older  than 
I  am." 

"  Just  a  year,  which  is  not  much  in  this  case.  She 
will  not  grow  old  fast,  while  you  will  mature  early;  the 
disparity  would  never  be  thought  of,"  Mrs.  Forrest  said. 
"  Beatrice  is  a  little  wild,  and  full  of  fun  and  frolic,  but 
under  all  that  is  a  deep-seated  principle  of  propriety  and 
right,  which  makes  her  a  noble  and  lovely  character.  I 
should  be  willing  to  trust  you  with  her,  and  your  father's 
heart  is  quite  set  on  this  match.  I  may  tell  you  now 
that  it  has  been  in  his  mind  for  years,  and  I  wish  you  to 
please  him,  both  for  his  sake  and  yours.  I  hope  you 
will  think  of  it,  Everard,  and  try  to  love  Beatrice;  surely 
it  cannot  be  hard  to  do  that  ?" 

"No,  mother,"  Everard  said,  "but  you  seem  to  put 
her  out  of  the  question  entirely.  Is  she  to  have  no  choice 
in  the  matter,  and  do  you  think  that,  belle  and  flirt  as 
she  is,  she  would  for  a  moment  consider  me,  Ned  Forrest, 
whom  she  calls  a  boy,  and  ridicules  unmercifully?  She 
would  not  have  me,  were  I  to  ask  her  a  thousand  times." 

"I  think  you  may  be  wrong,"  Mrs.  Forrest  said.  "It 
purely  can't  be  that  you  love  some  one  else  ?"  and  she 
looked  at  him  searchingly. 

Now  was  the  time  to  speak  of  Josephine,  if  ever,  and 
while  his  heart  beat  so  loudly  that  he  could  hear  it,  he 
said,  "  Yes,  mother,  I  do  like  some  one  else  ; — it  is  a 
young  girl  in  Holburton,  where  I  staid  last  summer. 
She  is  very  beautiful.  This  is  her  picture,"  and  he  passed 
Josephine's  photograph  to  his  mother,  who  studied  it 
carefully  for  two  or  three  minutes;  then  turning  her  eyes 
to  her  son  she  said  :  "  She  is  beautiful,  so  far  as  features 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  47 

and  complexion  are  concerned,  but  I  am  greatly  mistaken 
in  you  if  the  original  of  this  face  can  satisfy  you  long." 

"  Why,  mother,  what  fault  have  you  to  find  with 
her?  Isn't  she  a  born  lady?"  Everard  asked,  a  little 
scornfully,  for  he  was  warming  up  in  Josephine's 
defense. 

"  Don't  misunderstand  what  I  mean  by  a  lady,"  Mrs. 
Forrest  said.  "  Birth  has  not  all  to  do  with  it.  Per- 
sons may  be  born  of  the  lowliest  parentage,  and  in  the 
humblest  shed,  but  still  have  that  within  them  which 
will  refine,  and  soften,  and  elevate  till  the  nobility  with- 
in asserts  itself,  and  lifts  them  above  their  surroundings. 
In  this  case,"  and  she  glanced  again  at  the  picture,  "  the 
inborn  nobility,  if  there  were  any,  has  had  time  to  assert 
itself,  and  stamp  its  impress  upon  the  face,  and  it  has 
not  done  that." 

"  For  pity's  sake,  mother,  tell  me  what  you  see  to 
dislike  so  much  in  Josephine  !"  Everard  burst  out,  indig- 
nantly. 

His  mother  knew  he  was  angry,  but  she  would  not 
spare  him,  lest  a  great  misfortune  should  befall  him. 
She  saw  the  face  she  looked  upon  was  very  fair,  but 
there  was  that  about  it  from  which  she  shrank  intuitively, 
her  quick  woman  instinct  telling  her  it  was  false  as  fair, 
and  not  at  all  the  face  she  would  have  in  her  boy's  home  ; 
so  she  answered  him  unhesitatingly  : 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  the  kind  of  person  I  fancy  this  girl 
to  be,  judging  from  her  picture?  Her  face  is  one  to 
attract  young  men  like  you,  and  she  would  try  to  attract 
you,  too,  and  the  very  manner  with  which  she  would  do 
it  would  be  the  perfection  of  art.  There  is  a  treacher- 
ous, designing  look  in  these  eyes,  so  blue  and  dreamy, 
and  about  the  mouth  there  is  a  cruel,  selfish  expression 
which  I  do  not  like.  I  do  not  believe  she  can  be  trusted. 
And  then,  it  may  be  a  minor  matter,  I  do  not  like  her 
style  of  dress.  A  really  modest  girl  would  not  have  sat 
for  her  picture  with  so  much  exposure  of  neck  and  arms, 
and  so  much  jewelry.  Surety  you  must  have  noticed 
the  immense  chain  and  cross,  and  all  the  show  of  brace- 
lets, and  pins,  and  ornaments  in  her  hair." 

Everard  had  thought  of  it,  but  he  would  not  acknowl- 
edge it,  and  his  mother  continued  : 

"  Tfye  whole  effect   is   tawdry,  and,  excuse   me   for 


48  MOTHER    AND    SON. 

putting  it  so  strongly,  but  it  reminds  me  of  the  dollar 
store,  and  the  jewelry  bought  there.  She  cannot  have 
the  true  instincts  of  a  lady.  Who  is  she,  Everard,  and 
where  does  she  live  ?" 

Everard  was  terribly  hurt  and  intensely  mortified, 
while  something  told  him  that  his  mother  was  not  alto- 
gether wrong  in  her  estimation  of  the  girl,  whose  picture 
did  resemble  more  a  second-rate  actress  tricked  out  in  her 
flashy  finery  than  a  pure,  modest  young  girl  ;  but  he  an- 
swered his  mother's  question,  and  said  : 

"She  lives  in  Holburton,  New  York,  and  her  name  is 
Josephine  Fleming.  I  boarded  for  three  weeks  last 
summer  with  her  mother,  Widow  Roxie  Fleming,  as  the 
people  call  her." 

He  spit  the  last  out  a  little  defiantly,  feeling  resolved 
that  his  mother  should  know  all  he  knew  about  the 
Flemings,  be  it  good  or  bad,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for 
the  next  remark. 

"  Roxie  ?  Roxie  Fleming  ?  Is  she  a  second  wife, 
and  is  there  a  step  daughter  much  older  than  Josephine?" 

"  Yes;  but  how  did  you  know  it,  and  where  have  you 
seen  them  ?"  Everard  asked,  eagerly,  his  anger  giving 
way  to  his  nervous  dread  of  some  development  worse 
even  than  the  dollar  jewelry,  which  had  hurt  him 
cruelly. 

"  Years  ago,  when  I  was  a  young  girl,  we  had  in  our 
family  a  cook,  Roxie  Burrows  by  name,  competent,  tidy, 
and  faithful  in  the  discharge  of  her  duties,  but  crafty, 
designing  and  ambitious.  Our  butcher  was  a  Mr.  Flem- 
ing, a  native  of  Ireland,  and  a  very  respectable  man, 
whose  little  daughter  used  sometimes  to  bring  us  the 
steak  for  breakfast  in  the  morning,  and  through  whom 
Roxie  captured  the  father,  after  the  mother  died.  She 
was  so  sorry  for  the  child,  and  mended  her  frocks,  and 
made  much  of  her  till  the  father  was  won,  when,  it  was 
said,  the  tables  were  turned,  and  little  Agnes  mended  the 
frocks  and  darned  the  socks,  while  Roxie  played  the 
lady.  I  remember  hearing  of  the  birth  of  a  daughter, 
but  I  was  married  about  that  time,  and  knew  no  more  of 
the  Flemings  until  a  few  years  later,  when  I  was  visiting 
in  Boston,  and  mother  told  me  that  he  was  dead,  and 
Roxie  had  gone  with  the  children  to  some  place  West. 
I  am  sure  it  must  be  the  same  woman  with  whom  you 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  49 

boarded.     Has  she  sandy  hair  and  light  gray  eyes,  with 
long  yellow  lashes  ?" 

•'  Yes,  she  has ;  it  is  the  same,"  Everard  replied,  with 
a  feeling  like  death  in  his  heart  as  he  thought  how  im- 
possible it  was  now  to  tell  his  mother  that  Josephine 
was  his  wife. 

How  impossible  it  was  that  she  would  ever  be  recon- 
ciled to  the  daughter  of  her  cook  and  butcher,  who  added 
to  her  other  faults  the  enormity  of  wearing  dollar  jew- 
elry !  And  I  think  that  last  really  hurt  Everard  the 
most.  On  such  points  he  was  very  fastidious  and  par- 
ticular, and  more  than  once  had  himself  thought  Josey's 
dress  too  flashy,  but  the  glamour  of  love  was  over  all, 
and  a  glance  of  her  blue  eyes,  or  touch  of  her  white 
hands  always  set  him  right  again  and  brought  him  back 
to  his  allegiance.  But  the  hands  and  the  eyes  were  not 
there  now  to  stand  between  him  and  what  his  mother 
had  said,  and  he  felt  like  crying  out  bitterly  as  he  took 
back  his  photograph  and  listened  a  few  moments  longer, 
while  his  mother  talked  lovingly  and  kindly,  telling  him 
he  must  forgive  her  if  she  had  seemed  harsh,  that  it  was 
for  his  good,  as  he  would  one  day  see.  He  would  forget 
this  boyish  fancy  in  time  and  come  to  wonder  a  his  in- 
fatuation. Forget  it !  with  those  words  ever  in  his 
ears,  "  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife."  He  could  not 
forget,  and  it  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  would  do  so  if 
he  could.  Josey's  face  and  Josey's  wiles  had  a  power 
over  him  yet  to  keep  him  comparatively  loyal.  He  had 
loved  her  with  all  the  intensity  of  a  boy's  first  fervent 
passion,  which  never  stopped  to  criticise  her  manner,  or 
language,  or  style  of  dress,  though,  now  that  his  eyes 
were  opened  a  little,  it  occurred  to  him  that  there  might 
be  something  flashy  in  her  appearance,  and  something 
told  him  that  the  massive  chain  and  cross,  so  conspicuous 
on  Josephine's  bosom,  came  from  that  store  in  Pittsfield, 
where  everything  was  a  dollar,  from  an  immense  pic- 
ture down  to  a  set  of  spoons.  And  his  mother  had  de- 
tected it,  by  what  subtle  intuition  he  could  not  guess  ; 
and  had  traced  her  origin  back  to  a  butcher  and  a 
cook  !  Well,  what  then  ?  Was  Jose^t  the  worse  for 
that  ?  Was  it  not  America's  boast  that  the  children  of 
butchers,  and  bakers,  and  candlestick-makers  should 
stand  in  the  high  places  and  give  rule  ?  Certainly  it 


50  MOTHER    AND    SON. 

was,  and  his  mother  herself  had  said  it  was  neither  birth 
nor  blood  which  made  the  lady.  It  was  a  nobleness  from 
within  asserting  itself  without,  and  stamping  its  impress 
upon  its  possessor.  And  had  Josephine  this  inborn  re- 
finement and  nobility,  or  had  she  not  ?  That  was  the 
point  which  troubled  the  young  man  as  he  went  out  from 
his  mother's  presence,  and  sought  a  little  arbor  in  a  re- 
tired part  of  the  grounds  where  he  would  be  free  to  think 
it  out.  With  his  head,  which  was  aching  terribly,  bowed 
upon  his  hands,  he  went  over  all  the  past  as  connected 
with  Josephine,  detecting  here  and  there  many  a  word 
and  act  which,  alas,  went  far  toward  proving  that  his 
mother's  estimate  of  her  was  not  very  wrong.  But  how 
did  his  mother  divine  it  ?  Had  women  some  secret 
method  of  reading  each  other  unknown  to  the  other  sex. 
Could  Beatrice  read  her,  too,  from  that  photograph,  and 
what  would  Bee's  verdict  be  ?  He  wished  he  knew ; 
wished  he  could  show  it  to  her  incidentally  as  the  photo- 
graph of  a  mere  acquaintance.  And  while  he  was  thus 
thinking  he  heard  in  the  distance  Bee's  voice,  and  lifting 
up  his  head  he  saw  her  corning  down  the  long  walk  gayly 
and  airily,  in  her  pretty  white  muslin  dress,  with  a  bit  of 
pink  coral  in  her  ears  and  in  the  lace  bow  at  her  throat. 
One  could  see  that  she  was  a  saucy,  fun-loving,  frolic- 
some girl,  with  opinions  of  her  own,  which  sometimes 
startled  the  staid  ones  who  walked  year  by  year  in  the 
same  rut,  but  she  was  every  whit  a  lady,  and  looked  it, 
too,  as  she  came  rapidly  toward  Everard,  who  found 
himself  studying  and  criticising  her  as  he  had  never 
criticised  a  woman  before.  She  was  not  like  Josephine, 
though  wherein  the  difference  consisted  he  could  not  tell. 
He  only  knew  that  the  load  at  his  heart  was  heavier  than 
ever,  and  that  he  almost  felt  that  in  some  way  he  was 
aggrieved  by  this  young  girl,  who,  when  she  saw  him, 
hastened  her  steps  and  was  soon  at  his  side. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are,"  she  said,  "  Rossie  told  me  I 
should  find  you  in  the  garden.  I  came  to  inquire  after 
that  broken  head,  for  which  I  feel  responsible.  Why, 
Ned,"  she  continued,  calling  him  by  the  old  familiar 
name  of  his  boyhood,  u  how  white  you  are  !  I  am  afraid 
it  was  more  serious  than  I  supposed  ;"  and  she  looked 
anxiously  into  his  pale,  worn  face. 

His  head  was  aching  terribly,  but  he  would  not  ac- 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  51 

knowledge  it.  He  only  said  he  was  a  little  tired,  that 
the  cut  on  his  forehead  was  nothing,  and  would  soon  be 
well  ;  then,  making  Beatrice  sit  down  beside  him,  he  be- 
gan to  ask  her  numberless  questions  about  the  people  of 
Rothsay,  especially  the  young  ladies.  Where  was  Sylvia 
Blackmer,  and  where  was  Annie  Doane,  and,  by-the-\vay, 
where  was  Allie  Beadle,  that  pretty  little  blonde,  with 
the  great  blue  eyes,  who  used  to  sing  in  the  choir. 

"  By  Jove,  she  was  pretty,"  he  said,  "  except  that  her 
hair  was  a  little  too  yellow.  She  looks  so  much  like  a 
girl  east  that  some  of  the  college  boys  rave  about,  only 
this  girl,  Miss  Fleming,  is  the  prettier  of  the  two.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  I  had  her  photograph  somewhere. 
She  had  a  lot  taken  and  gave  me  one.  Yes,  here  it  is," 
he  continued,  after  a  feint  of  rummaging  his  pocket- 
book.  "What  do  you  think  of  her?"  he  asked,  passing 
the  picture  to  Beatrice,  and  feeling  himself  a  monster  of 
duplicity  and  deception. 

Bee  took  the  card,  and  looking  at  it  a  moment,  said  : 

"  Yes,  she  is  very  pretty  ;  but  you  don't  want  any- 
thing to  do  with  that  girl.  She  is  not  like  you." 

It  was  the  old  story  repeated,  and  Everard  felt  net- 
tled and  annoyed,  but  managed  not  to  show  it,  as  he 
replied  : 

"  Who  said  I  did  want  anything  to  do  with  her  ?  But 
honestly,  though,  what  do  you  see  in  her  to  dislike?" 

"Nothing  to  dislike,"  Bee  said,  "  I  do  not  fancy  her 
make-up,  that's  all.  She  looks  as  if  she  would  wear  cot- 
ton lace  !"  and  having  said  what  in  her  estimation  was 
the  worst  thing  she  could  say  of  a  woman,  Beatrice 
handed  him  back  the  picture,  which  he  put  up  silently, 
feeling  that  he  could  not  tell  Beatrice  of  Josey. 

He  could  not  tell  anybody  unless  it  was  Rossie,  and 
he  did  not  believe  he  cared  to  do  that  now,  though  he 
would  like  to  show  her  the  picture  and  hear  what  she 
had  to  say.  Would  she  see  dollar  jewelry  and  cotton 
lace  in  the  face  he  thought  so  divine?  He  meant  to  try 
her,  and  after  Beatrice  was  gone  he  strolled  off  to  a 
shaded  part  of  the  grounds,  where  he  came  upon  Rossie 
watering  a  bed  of  fuchsias.  She  was  not  sylph-like  and 
graceful,  or  clad  in  airy  muslin,  like  Beatrice.  She  was 
unformed  and  angular,  and  her  dress  was  a  dark  chintz, 
short  enough  to  show  her  slender  ankles,  which  he  ha$ 


53  MOTHER    AND    SON. 

once  teasingly  called  pipe-stems,  and  her  thick  boots, 
which  were  much  too  large,  for  she  would  not  have  her 
feet  pinched,  and  always  wore  shoes  a  size  and  a-half  too 
big.  A  clean  white  apron,  ruffled  and  fluted,  and  a  white 
sun-bonnet,  completed  her  costume.  Josephine  would 
have  called  her  "  homely,"  if  she  had  noticed  her  at  all, 
and  some  such  idea  was  in  Everard's  mind  as  he  ap- 
proached her  ;  but  when,  at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps, 
she  turned  and  flashed  upon  him  from  beneath  the  cape- 
bonnet  those  great,  brilliant  eyes,  he  changed  his  mind, 
and  thought  :  "  Won't  those  eyes  do  mischief  yet,  when 
Rossie  gets  a  little  older." 

She  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  stopped  watering  her 
flowers  while  she  inquired  after  his  head,  and  if  Miss 
Belknap  found  him. 

"  Yes,  she  did,"  he  said,  adding,  as  he  sat  down  in  a 
rustic  chair  :  "  Bee  is  handsome  and  no  mistake." 

"  That's  so,"  Rossie  replied,  promptly,  for  Bee  Bel- 
knap's  beauty  was  her  hobby.  "  She  is  the  handsomest 
girl  I  ever  saw.  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Here  was  his  opportunity,  and  he  hastened  to  seize  it. 

"  Why,  no,"  he  said,  "  not  the  very  handsomest  I 
ever  saw.  I  have  a  photograph  of  a  girl  I  think  prettier. 
Here  she  is."  And  he  passed  Josephine's  picture  toward 
Rossie,  who  set  down  her  watering-pot,  and  wiping  her 
soiled  hands,  took  it  as  carefully  as  if  it  had  been  the 
picture  of  a  goddess. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Everard  !"  she  cried,  "  she  is  beautiful  ; 
more  so  than  Miss  Beatrice,  I  do  believe.  Such  dreamy 
eyes,  which  look  at  you  so  kind  of — kind  of  coaxingly, 
somehow ;  and  such  lovely  hair !  Who  is  she,  Mr. 
Everard  ?" 

"  Oh,  she's  one  of  the  girls,"  Everard  answered,  laugh- 
ingly, and  experiencing  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  in 
Josey's  favor  at  Rossie's  opinion  of  her. 

Here  was  one  who  could  give  an  unprejudiced  opin- 
ion ;  here  was  a  champion  for  Josey  ;  and  in  his  delight, 
Everard  thought  how,  with  his  first  spare  money,  he 
would  buy  Rossie  a  gold  ring,  as  a  reward  of  merit  for 
what  she  had  said  of  Josey.  Her  next  remarks,  how- 
ever, dampened  his  ardor  a  little. 

"  She's  very  rich,  isju't  she  ?"  Rossie  asked  ;  and  he 
replied ; 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  53 

"  No,  not  rich  at  all.     Why  do  you  think  that  ?" 

"  Because  she  has  such  a  big  chain  and  cross,  and 
such  heavy  bracelets  and  ear-rings,  and  is  dressed  more 
than  Miss  Belknap  dresses  at  a  grand  party,"  Rossie 
said  :  and  Everard  answered  her  quickly  : 

"  Rossie,  you  are  a  little  thing,  not  much  bigger  than 
my  thumb,  but  you  have  more  sense  than  many  older 
girls.  Tell  me,  then,  if  you  know,  is  it  bad  taste  to  be 
overdressed  in  a  picture,  and  is  it  a  crime,  a  sin,  to  wear 
bogus  jewelry  ?" 

She  did  not  at  all  know  at  what  he  was  aiming,  and, 
pleased  with  the  compliment  to  her  wisdom,  answered, 
with  great  gravity  : 

"  Not  a  crime  to  wear  flash  jewelry, — no.  I  wore  a 
brass  ring  once  till  it  blacked  my  finger.  I  wore  a  glass 
breast-pin,  too,  which  cost  me  twenty-five  cents,  till  your 
mother  said  it  was  foolish,  and  not  like  a  lady.  But  I 
do  not  think  it's  a  crime  ;  it's  only  second-classy.  A 
great  many  do  it,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if," — 
here  the  little  lady  looked  very  wise,  and  lifted  her  fore- 
finger by  way  of  emphasis — "I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if 
this  chain  and  cross  were  both  shams,  for  now  that  I 
look  at  her  more  closely,  she  looks  like  a  sham,  too." 

Rosamond's  prospect  for  a  ring  was  gone  forever, 
and  Everard's  voice  trembled  as  he  took  back  his  pic- 
ture, and  said  : 

"  Thank  you,  Rossie,  for  telling  me  what  you  thought. 
Maybe  she  is  a  sham.  Most  things  are  in  this  world,  I 
find." 

Then  he  walked  rapidly  away,  while  Rossie  stood 
looking  after  him  and  wondering  if  he  was  angry  with 
her,  and  who  the  young  girl  was,  and  if  he  really  liked 
her. 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  thought,  "  for  though  she  is  very 
handsome,  there  is  something  about  her  which  does  not 
seem  like  Mr.  Everard  and  Miss  Beatrice.  They  ought 
to  go  together  ;  they  must  ;  it  is  so  suitable  ;"  and 
having  settled  the  future  of  Beatrice  and  Everard  to  her 
own  satisfaction,  the  little  girl  resumed  her  work  among 
the  flowers,  and  did  not  see  Everard  again  until  supper- 
time,  when  he  looked  so  pale  and  tired  that  even  his 
father  noticed  it  and  asked  if  he  were  sick. 

Ihe  cut  over  his  eye  was  paining  him,  he  said,  and  if 


54  MOTHER    AND    SON. 

they  would  excuse  him  he  would  retire  to  his  room  early, 
and  should  probably  be  all  right  on  the  morrow.  The 
night  was  hot  and  sultry,  and  even  the  light  breeze  from 
the  river  seemed  oppressive  and  laden  with  thunder,  and 
for  hours  Everard  lay  awake  thinking  of  the  future, 
which  stretched  before  him  so  drearily  with  that  burden 
on  his  mind.  How  he  wished  that  it  might  prove  a 
dream,  from  which  he  should  awake  to  find  himself  free 
once  more,— free  to  marry  Josephine  if  he  chose,  and  he 
presumed  he  should,  but  not  till  his  college  days  were 
over,  and  he  could  take  her  openly  and  publicly  as  a 
true  man  takes  the  woman  he  loves  and  honors.  How 
he  hated  to  be  a  sneak  and  a  coward,  and  he  called  him- 
self by  these  names  many  times,  and  loathed  himself  for 
the  undefinable  something  creeping  over  him,  and  which 
made  him  shrink  even  from  Josephine  herself  as  Jose- 
phine. He  said  he  did  not  care  a  picayune  for  the 
butcher  and  the  cook,  and  he  did  not  care  for  the 
dollar  jewelry  and  cotton  lace,  though  he  would  rather 
his  mother  and  Bee  had  not  used  the  opprobrious 
terms,  but  he  did  care  for  the  sham  of  which  his 
mother  had  spoken,  and  which  even.  Rossie  had  de- 
tected. Was  Josey  a  sham,  and  if  so,  what  was  his 
life  with  her  to  be  ?  Alas  for  Everard  !  he  was  only 
just  entering  the  cloud  which  was  to  overshadow  him 
for  so  many  wretched  years.  At  last  he  fell  into  a 
troubled  sleep,  from  which  he  was  aroused  by  the  noise 
of  the  storm  of  rain  which  had  swept  down  the  river  and 
was  beating  against  the  house,  but  above  the  storm  there 
was  another  sound,  Rossie  calling  to  him  in  tones  of 
affright,  and  bidding  him  hasten  to  his  mother,  who  was 
dying. 

Of  all  which  followed  next  Everard  retained  in  after 
life  but  a  vague  consciousness.  There  was  a  confused 
dressing  in  the  dark,  a  hurrying  to  his  mother,  whose 
white  face  turned  so  eagerly  toward  him,  and  whose 
pallid  lips  were  pressed  upon  his  brow  as  they  prayed 
God  to  keep  him  from  evil,  and  bring  him  at  last  to  the 
world  she  was  going  to.  There  were  words  of  love  and 
tender  parting  to  the  stricken  husband  and  heart-broken 
Rossie,  who  had  been  to  her  like  a  daughter,  and  whom 
she  committed  to  the  care  of  both  Everard  and  his 
father,  as  a  precious  legacy  left  in  their  charge.  Then, 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  55 

drawing  Everard  close  to  her,  she  whispered  so  low  that 
no  one  else  could  hear  : 

"Forgive  me  if  I  seemed  harsh  in  what  I  said  of 
Josephine.  I  only  meant  it  for  your  good.  I  may  have 
been  mistaken  ;  I  hope  I  was.  I  hope  she  is  good,  and 
true,  and  womanly,  and  if  she  is,  and  you 'love  her,  her 
birth  is  of  no  consequence,  none  whatever.  God  bless 
you,  my  child,  and  her,  too  !" 

She  never  spoke  again,  and  when  the  early  summer 
morning  looked  into  the  room,  there  was  only  a  still, 
motionless  figure  on  the  bed,  with  pale  hands  folded 
upon  the  bosom,  and  the  pillow  strewn  with  flowers, 
which  Rosamond  had  put  there.  Rosamond  thought  of 
everything  ;  first  of  the  dead,  then  of  the  stern  judge, 
who  broke  down  entirely  by  the  side  of  his  lost  Mary, 
and  then  of  Everard,  who  seemed  like  one  stunned  by'a 
heavy  blow.  With  the  constantly  increasing  pain  in  his 
head,  blinding  him  even  more  than  the  tears  he  shed,  he 
•wrote  to  Josephine  : 

"  Oh,  Josey,  you  will  be  sorry  for  me  when  I  tell  you 
mother  is  dead.  She  died  this  morning  at  three  o'clock, 
and  I  am  heart-broken.  She  was  all  the  world  to  inc. 
What  shall  I  do  without  my  mother?" 

He  posted  the  letter  himself,  and  then  kept  his  room, 
and  for  the  most  part  his  bed,  until  the  day  of  the  fune- 
ral, when,  hardly  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  or  realiz- 
ing what  was  passing  around  him,  he  stood  by  his 
mother's  grave,  saw  the  coffin  lowered  into  it,  heard  the 
earth  rattling  down  upon  it,  and  had  a  strange  sensation 
of  wonder  as  to  whom  they  were  burying,  and  who  ho 
was  himself.  That  puzzled  him  the  most,  except,  in- 
deed, the  question  as  to  where  the  son  was,  the  young 
man  from  Amherst  College,  who  drove  such  fast  horses, 
and  smoked  so  many  cigars,  and  sometimes  bet  at  cards. 
"  He  ought  to  be  here  seeing  to  this,"  he  thought ;  and 
then,  as  a  twinge  of  pain  shot  through  his  temple,  he 
moaned  faintly,  and  went  back  to  the  carriage,  in  which 
he  was  driven  rapidly  home. 

There  was  a  letter  from  Josephine  in  his  room,  which 
had  come  while  he  was  at  his  mother's  grave.  lie  recog- 
nized the  handwriting  at  once,  and  with  a  feeling  as  if 
something  were  clutching  his  throat  and  impeding  his 
breath,  he  took  it  up,  and  opening  it,  read  his  first  letter 
from  his  wife. 


JOSEPHINE. 
CHAPTER  VII. 

JOSEPHINE. 

IMMEDIATELY  after  Everard's  departure  she 
wrote  to  the  postmaster  at  Clarence,  making 
inquiries  for  Doctor  Matthewson,  and  in  due 
time  received  an  answer  addressed  to  the 
fictitious  name  which  she  had  given.  There 
had  been  a  clergyman  in  town  by  that  name,  the  post- 
master wrote,  but  he  had  been  dismissed  for  various  mis- 
demeanors. However,  a,  marriage  performed  by  him, 
with  the  knowledge  and  consent  of  the  parties,  would 
undoubtedly  be  binding  on  such  parties.  Latterly  he 
had  taken  to  the  study  of  medicine,  and  assumed  the  title 
of  "  Doctor." 

There  could  be  no  mistake,  and  the  harrowing  doubt 
which  had  so  weighed  on  Josephine's  spirits  gave  way 
as  she  read  this  answer  to  her  letter.  She  was  Mrs. 
James  Everard  Forrest,  and  she  wrote  the  name  many 
times  on  slips  of  paper  which  she  tore  up  and  threw 
upon  the  floor.  Then,  summoning  Agnes  from  the 
kitchen,  she  bade  her  arrange  her  hair,  for  there  was  a 
concert  in  the  Hall  that  night,  and  she  was  going.  Al- 
ways meek  and  submissive,  Agnes  obeyed,  and  brushed 
and  curled  the  beautiful  golden  hair,  and  helped  array 
her  sister  in  the  pretty  blue  muslin,  and  clasped  about 
her  neck  and  arms  the  heavy  bracelets  and  chain  which 
had  been  so  criticised  and  condemned  at  the  Forrest 
House.  They  were  not  quite  as  bright  now  as  when  the 
young  lady  first  bought  tiiem  in  Pittsfield.  Their  luster 
was  somewhat  tarnished,  and  Josephine  knew  it,  and 
felt  a  qualrn  of  disgust  every  time  she  looked  at  them. 
She  knew  the  difference  between  the  real  and  the  sham 
quite  as  well  as  Beatrice  herself,  and  by  and  by,  when 
she  was  established  in  her  rightful  position  as  Mrs.  Ever- 
ard Forrest,  she  meant  to  indulge  to  the  full  her  fondness 
for  dress,  and  make  amends  for  the  straits  to  which  she 
had  all  her  life  been  subjected. 

"  She  would  make  old  Forrest's  money  fly,  only  let 


JOSEPHINE.  57 

her  have  a  chance,"  she  said  to  Agnes,  to  whom  she  was 
repeating  the  contents  of  the  letter  just  received  from 
Clarence. 

"Then  it's  true,  and  you  are  his  wife?"  Agnes  said, 
her  voice  indicative  of  anything  but  pleasure. 

This  Josephine  was  quick  to  detect,  and  she  answered, 
sharply  : 

"His  wife?  yes.  Have  you  any  objection?  One 
would  suppose  by  your  manner  that  you  were  sorry  for 
Everard." 

"  And  so  I  am,"  Agnes  answered,  boldly.  "  I  don't 
believe  lie  knew  what  he  was  doing.  It's  a  pity  for  him, 
he  is  so  young,  and  we  so  different." 

"So  different,  Agnes?  I  wish  you  wouldn't  forever 
harp  on  that  string.  As  if  I  were  not  quite  as  good  as  a 
Forrest  or  any  other  aristocrat.  Can't  you  ever  forget 
your  Irish  blood  ?  It  does  not  follow  because  the  poor 
people  in  Ireland  and  England  lie  down  and  let  the 
nobility  walk  over  them,  that  we  do  it  in  America,  where 
it  does  sometimes  happen  that  the  daughter  of  a  butcher 
and  a  cook  may  marry  into  a  family  above  her  level." 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  that,"  Agnes  said.  "  Praised  be 
Heaven  for  America,  where  everybody  who  has  it  in  him 
can  rise  if  he  will  ;  and  yet,  there's  a  difference  here, 
just  as  much  and  more,  I  sometimes  think,  for  to  be  some- 
body you  must  have  it  in  you.  I  can't  explain,  but  I 
know  what  I  mean,  and  so  do  you." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  Josephine  replied,  angrily.  "  You  mean 
that  I  have  not  the  requisite  qualifications  to  make  me 
acceptable  at  the  Forrest  House  ;  that  my  fine  lady  from 
Boston  would  be  greatly  shocked  to  know  that  the  mother 
of  her  daughter-in-law  once  cooked  her  dinner  and 
washed  her  clothes." 

"  No,  not  for  that, — not  for  birth  or  poverty,"  Agnes 
said,  eagerly,  "  but  because  you  are, — you  are— —  " 

"Well,  what?"  Josephine  demanded,  impatiently, 
and  Agnes  replied  : 

"  You  are  what  yon  are." 

"  And  pray  what  am  I?"  Josephine  retorted.  " I  was 
Miss  Josephine  Fleming,  daughter  of  Mrs.  Roxie  Flem- 
ing, who  used  to  work  for  the  Bigelows  of  Boston  till 
she  married  an  Irish  butcher,  who  was  shabby  enough  to 
die  and  leave  her  to  shift  for  herself,  which  she  did  by 

3* 


58  JOSEPHINE. 

taking  boarders.  That's  what  I  was.  Now,  I  am  Mrs. 
James  Everard  Forrest,  with  a  long  line  of  blue-blooded 
Southern  ancestry,  to  say  nothing  of  the  bluer  Bigelows 
of  Boston.  That's  who  I  am  ;  so  please  button  my  boots 
and  bring  me  my  shawl  and  fan  ;  it's  high  time  I  was 
off." 

Agnes  obeyed,  and  buttoned  the  boots,,  and  put  a  bit 
of  blacking  on  the  toe  where  the  leather  was  turning 
red,  and  brought  the  fleecy  shawl  and  wrapped  it  care- 
fully around  her  sister,  who  looked  exceedingly  graceful 
and  pretty,  and  bore  herself  like  a  princess  as  she  entered 
the  Hall  and  took  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  seats. 
How  she  wished  the  people  could  know  the  honor  to 
which  she  had  come;  and  when,  to  the  question  as  to 
who  she  was,  asked  by  a  stranger  behind  her,  she  heard 
the  reply,  "  Oh,  that's  Joe  Fleming  ;  her  mother  keeps 
boarders,"  she  longed  to  shriek  out  her  new  name,  and 
announce  herself  as  Mrs.  James  Everard  Forrest.  But 
it  was  policy  to  keep  silent,  and  she  was  content  to  bide 
her  time,  and  anticipate  what  she  would  do  in  the  future 
when  her  marriage  was  announced.  Of  Everard  himself 
she  thought  a  great  deal,  but  she  thought  more  of  his 
position  and  wealth  than  she  did  of  him.  And  yet  she 
•was  very  anxious  to  hear  from  him,  and  when  his  letter 
came  she  tore  it  open  eagerly,  while  a  bright  flush  col- 
ored her  cheek  when  she  saw  the  words,  "My  dear  little 
wife,"  and  her  heart  was  very  light  as  she  read  the  brief 
letter, — so  light,  in  fact,  that  it  felt  no  throb  of  pity  for 
the  sick  and  dying  mother.  Josey  had  heard  from  her 
mother  of  the  aristocratic  Miss  Bigelow,  at  whose 
grand  wedding  governors  and  senators  had  been  present, 
and  she  shrank  from  this  high-born  woman,  who  might 
•weigh  her  in  the  balance  and  find  her  sadly  wanting. 
So  she  felt  no  sympathy  with  Everard's  touching  in- 
quiry, "What  shall  I  do  without  my  mother?"  He 
\vould  do  very  well  indeed,  she  thought,  and  as  for  her- 
self, she  would  rather  reign  alone  at  Forrest  House  than 
share  her  kingdom  with  another.  How  she  chafed  and 
fretted  that  she  could  not  begin  her  triumph  at  once, 
but  must  wait  two  years,  at  least,  and  be  known  as  Jo- 
sephine Fleming,  who  held  her  position  in  Hoi  burton 
only  with  her  pretty  face  and  determined  will.  But 
there  was  no  help  for  it,  and,  for  the  present,  she  must 


JOSEPHINE.  69 

be  content  with  the  knowledge  that  Everard  was  hers, 
and  that  by  and  by  his  money  would  be  hers  also.  To 
do  her  just  ice,  however,  she  was  just  now  a  good  deal  in 
love  with  her  young  husband,  and  thought  of  him  almost 
as  often  as  of  his  money,  though  that  was  a  very  weighty 
consideration,  and  when  her  mother  suggested  that  there 
was  no  reason  why  she  should  not,  to  a  certain  degree, 
be  supported  by  her  husband,  even  if  she  did  not  take 
his  name,  she  indorsed  the  suggestion  heartily,  and  the 
letter  she  wrote  to  Everard,  in  reply  to  his,  contained  a 
request  for  money. 

The  letter  was  as  follows  : 

"  HOLBTJRTON,  July  . 

"  DEAR  EVERAED  : — T  was  so  glad  to  get  your  letter, 
and  oh,  my  darling,  how  sorry  I  am  to  hear  of  your  dear 
mother's  dangerous  illness  !  I  trust  it  is  not  as  bad  as 
you  feared,  and  hope  she  may  recover.  I  know  I  should 
love  her,  and  I  mean  to  try  to  be  what  I  think  she  would 
wish  your  wife  to  be.  I  am  anxious  to  know  if  you  told 
her,  and  what  she  said. 

"  I  have  written  to  Clarence,  as  Dr.  Matthewson  bade 
me  do,  and  find  that  he  really  was  a  clergyman  ;  so  there 
can  be  no  mistake  about  the  marriage,  and  if  you  do  not 
regret  it  I  certainly  do  not,  only  it  is  kind  of  forlorn  to 
know  you  have  a  husband  and  still  live  apart  from  him, 
and  be  denied  the  privilege  of  his  name.  It  is  for  the  best, 
however,  and  I  am  content  to  wait  your  pleasure.  And, 
now,  my  dear  husband,  don't  think  meanly  of  me,  will  j'ou, 
and  accuse  me  of  being  mercenary.  You  would  not  if 
you  knew  the  straits  we  are  driven  to  in  order  to  meet 
our  expenses.  Now  that  I  am  your  wife  I  wish  to  take 
lessons  in  music  and  French,  so  as  to  fit  myself  for  the 
position  I  hope  one  day  to  fill  in  your  family.  You  must 
not  be  ashamed  of  me,  and  you  shall  not,  if  I  only  have 
the  means  with  which  to  improve  my  mind.  If  yon  can 
manage  to  send  me  fifty  dollars  I  shall  make  the  best 
possible  use  of  it.  You  do  not  know  how  I  hate  to  ask 
you  so  soon,  but  I  feel  that  I  must  in  order  to  carry  out 
my  plans  for  improvement. 

"  And  now,  my  darling  husband,  I  put  both  my  arms 
around  your  neck  and  kiss  you  many,  many  times,  and 


60  JOSEPHINE. 

ask  you  not  to  be  angry  with  me,  but  write  to  me  soon, 
and  send  the  money,  if  possible. 

"  Truly,  lovingly,  faithfully,  your  wife,         JOE." 

"I  haven't  told  more  than  three  falsehoods,"  Josey 
said  to  herself,  as  she  read  the  letter  over.  "  I  said  I 
hoped  his  mother  would  recover,  and  that  I  knew  I  should 
love  her,  and  that  I  wanted  the  money  to  pay  for  music 
and  French,  when,  in  fact,  I  want  more  a  silk  dress  in 
two  shades  of  brown.  And  he  will  send  it,  too.  He'll 
manage  to  get  it  from  his  father  or  mother,  and  I  may 
as  well  drop  in  at  Hurt's  and  look  at  the  silk  this  after- 
noon, on  my  way  to  post  this  letter." 

She  did  drop  in  at  Burt's  and  looked  at  the  silk,  and 
saw  another  piece,  more  desirable  every  way,  and  fifty 
cents  more  a  yard.  And  from  looking  she  grew  to  cov- 
eting, and  was  sorry  that  she  had  not  asked  for  seventy- 
five  instead  of  fifty  dollars,  as  the  one  would  be  as  likely 
to  be  forthcoming  as  the  other.  Once  she  thought  to 
open  her  letter  and  add  a  P.  S.  to  it,  but  finally  decided 
to  wait  and  write  again  for  the  extra  twenty-five.  The 
merchant  would  reserve  the  silk  for  her  a  week  or  more, 
he  said,  and  picturing  to  herself  how  she  should  look  in 
the  two  shades  of  brown,  Josey  tripped  off  to  the  post- 
office,  where  she  deposited  the  letter,  which  Everard 
found  upon  his  table  on  his  return  from  his  mother's 
grave.  It  was  the  silk  which  in  Josey's  mind  was  the 
most  desirable,  but  the  music  and  the  French  must  be  had 
as  well,  and  so  she  called  upon  a  Mrs.  Herring,  who  gave 
music  lessons  in  the  town,  and  proposed  that  she  should 
have  two  lessons  a  week,  with  the  use  of  piano,  and  that 
as  compensation  the  lady's  washing,  and  that  of  her  lit- 
tle girl,  should  be  done  by  sister  Agnes,  who  was  repre- 
sented as  the  instigator  of  the  plan.  As  the  arrangement 
was  better  for  the  lady  than  for  Josey,  the  bargain  was 
closed  at  once,  and  Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest  took  her  first  lesson 
that  very  afternoon,  showing  such  an  aptitude  and  eager- 
ness to  learn  that  her  teacher  assured  her  of  quick  and 
brilliant  success  as  a  performer.  The  French  was  man- 
aged in  much  the  same  way,  and  paid  for  in  plain  sewing, 
which  Josey,  who  was  handy  and  neat  with  her  needle, 
undertook  herself,  instead  of  putting  it  upon  her  mother 
or  poor  Agnes,  who,  on  the  Monday  following,  saw,  with 


EVERARD.  61 

dismay,  the  basket  piled  high  with  extra  linen,  which  she 
was  to  wash  and  iron.  There  was  a  weary  sigh  from  the 
heavily-burdened  woman,  and  then  she  took  up  this  added 
task  without  a  single  protest,  and  scrubbed,  and  toiled, 
and  sweat,  that  Josey  might  have  the  accomplishments 
which  were  to  fit  her  to  be  mistress  of  the  Forrest 
House. 

Every  day  Josey  passed  the  shop  window  at  Burt's, 
and  stopped  to  admire  the  silk,  and  at  last  fell  into  the 
trap  laid  for  her  by  the  scheming  merchant,  who  told 
her  that  three  other  ladies  had  been  looking  at  it  with  a 
view  to  purchase,  and  she'd  better  decide  to  take  it  at 
once  if  she  really  wanted  it ;  so  she  took  it,  and  wrote  to 
Everard  that  night,  asking  why  he  did  not  send  the  fifty 
dollars,  and  asking  him  to  increase  it  with  twenty-five 
more. 


CHAPTER  VHL 
EVEEAED. 

E  was  so  giddy,  and  sick,  and  faint,  when  he 
returned  to  the  house  from  his  mother's 
grave,  that  he  had  scarcely  strength  to  reach 
his  room,  where  the  first  object  which  caught 
his  eye  was  Josephine's  letter  upon  the  table. 
Very  eagerly  he  caught  it  up,  and  breaking  the  seal, 
began  to  read  it,  his  pulse  quickening  and  his  heart  beat- 
ing rapidly  as  he  thought,  "She  would  be  so  sorry  for 
me  if  she  knew." 

He  was  so  heart-sore  and  wretched  in  his  bereavement, 
and  he  wanted  the  sympathy  of  some  one, — wanted  to 
be  petted,  as  his  mother  had  always  petted  him  in  all 
his  griefs,  and  as  she  would  never  pet  him  again.  She 
was  dead,  and  his  heart  went  out  with  a  great  yearning 
after  his  young  wife,  as  the  proper  person  to  comfort 
and  sootlie  him  now.  Had  she  been  there  he  would 
have  declared  her  his  in  the  face  of  all  the  world,  and 
laying  his  aching  head  in  her  lap  would  have  sobbed 
out  his  sorrow.  But  she  was  far  away,  and  he  was  read- 


62  EVERARD. 

ing  her  letter,  which  did  not  give  him  ranch  satisfaction 
from  the  very  first.  There  was  an  eagerness  to  assure 
him  that  the  marriage  was  valid,  and  he  was  glad, 
of  course,  that  it  was  so,  and  conld  not  blame  her  for 
chafing  against  the  secrecy  which  they  must  fora  time 
maintain  ;  but  what  was  this  request  for  fifty  dollars, — 
this  hint  that  she  had  a  right  to  ask  support  from  him? 
In  all  his  dread  of  the  evils  involved  in  a  secret  marriage 
he  had  never  dreamed  that  she  would  ask  him  so  soon  for 
fifty  dollars,  when  he  had  not  five  in  the  world,  and  but 
for  Rosamond's  generous  forethought  in  sending  him 
the  ten  lie  would  have  been  obliged  to  borrow  to  get 
home.  Fifty  dollars  !  It  seemed  to  the  young  man  like 
a  fabulous  sum,  which  he  could  never  procure.  For  how 
was  he  to  do  it?  He  had  told  his  father  distinctly  that 
he  was  free  from  debt,  that  he  did  not  owe  a  dollar, 
and  if  lie  should  go  to  him  now  with  a  request  for  fifty 
dollars  what  would  he  say  ?  It  made  Everard  shiver 
just  to  think  of  confronting  his  stern  father  with  that 
demand.  The  thing  was  impossible.  "  I  can't  do  it," 
he  said;  and  then,  in  his  despair,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
Josey  had  no  right  to  make  this  demand  upon  him  so 
soon  ;  she  might  have  known  he  could  only  meet  it  by 
asking  his  father,  which  was  sure  to  bring  a  fearful  storm 
about  his  head.  It  was  not  modest,  it  was  not  nice  in 
her,  it  was  not  womanly  ;  Bee  would  never  have  done  it, 
Rossie  would  never  have  done  it ;  but  they  were  different 
— and  there  came  back  to  him  the  remembrance  of  what 
his  mother  had  said,  and  with  it  a  great  horror  lest  Jose- 
phine might  really  lack  that  innate  refinement  which 
marks  a  true  lady.  But  he  would  not  be  disloyal  to  her 
even  in  thought  ;  she  was  his  wife,  and  she  had  a  right  to 
look  to  him  for  support  when  she  could  have  nothing  else. 
She  could  not  take  his  name,  she  could  not  have  his 
society,  and  he  was  a  brute  to  feel  annoyed  because  she 
asked  him  for  money  with  which  to  fit  herself  for  his 
wife.  "She  is  to  be  commended  for  it,"  lie  thought. 
"  I  wish  her  to  be  accomplished  when  I  present  her  to 
Bee,  who  is  such  a  splendid  performer,  and  jabbers 
French  like  a  native.  Oh,  if  I  had  the  money,"  he  con- 
tinued, feeling  as  by  a  revelation  that  Josephine  would 
never  cease  her  importunings  until  she  had  what  she 
wanted. 


EVERAttD.  63 

But  how  should  he  get  it?  Could  he  work  at  some- 
thing and  earn  it,  or  could  he  sell  his  watch,  his  mother's 
gift  when  he  was  eighteen  ? 

"  No,  not  that ;  I  can't  part  with  that,"  he  groaned  :, 
and  then  he  remembered  his  best  suit  of  clothes,  which 
had  cost  nearly  a  hundred  dollars,  and  a  great  many 
hard  words  from  his  father.  He  could  sell  these  in  Cin- 
cinnati ;  he  had  just  money  enough  to  go  there  and 
back,  and  he  would  do  it  the  next  day,  and  make  some 
excuse  for  taking  a  valise,  and  no  one  need  be  the  wiser. 
That  was  the  very  best  thing  he  could  do,  and  comforted 
with  this  decision  he  crept  shivering  to  bed  just  as  the 
clock  was  striking  the  hour  of  eleven. 

Breakfast  waited  a  long  time  for  him  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  when  she  saw  how  impatient  the  judge  was 
growing,  Rosamond  went  to  his  door  and  knocked 
loudly  upon  it,  but  received  no  answer,  except  a  faint 
sound  like  a  moan  of  pain,  which  frightened  her,  and 
sent  her  at  once  to  the  judge,  who  went  himself  to  his 
son's  room.  Everard  was  not  asleep,  nor  did  he  look  as 
if  he  had  ever  slept,  with  his  blood-shot,  wide-open  eyes 
rolling  restlessly  in  his  head,  which  moved  from  side  to 
side  as  if  in  great  distress.  He  did  not  know  his  father  ; 
he  did  not  know  anybody  ;  and  said  that  he  was  not 
sick,  when  the  doctor  came,  and  he  would  not  be  blistered 
and  he  wouldn't  be  bled  ;  he  must  get  up  and  have  his 
clothes, — his  best  ones, — and  he  made  Rossie  bring  them 
to  him  and  fold  them  up  and  put  them  in  his  satchel, 
which  he  kept  upon  his  bed  all  during  the  two  weeks 
when  he  lay  raving  with  delirium  and  burning  with 
fever  induced  by  the  cut  on  his  head,  and  aggravated  by 
the  bleeding  and  blistering  which  he  had  without  stint. 
Rossie  was  the  nurse  who  staid  constantly  with  him,  and 
who  alone  could  quiet  him  when  he  was  determined  to 
get  up  and  sell  his  clothes.  This  was  the  burden  of  his 
talk. 

"I  must  sell  them  and  get  the  money,"  he  would  say, 
— but,  with  a  singular  kind  of  cunning  common  to  crazy 
people,  he  never  said  money  before  his  father.  It  was 
only  to  Rosamond  that  he  talked  of  that,  and  once,  when 
she  sat  alone  with  him,  he  said  : 

;'  Don't  let  the  governor  know,  for  your  life." 

"  No,  I  won't  ;  you  can  trust  me,"  she  replied  ;  then, 


64  EVERARD. 

while  she  bathed  his  throbbing  head,  she  asked  :  "  Why 
do  you  want  the  money,  Mr.  Everard  ?  What  will  you 
do  with  it  ?" 

"  Send  it  to  Joe"  he  said.     "  Do  you  know  Joe  ?" 

Rossie  didn't  know  Joe,  and  she  innocently  asked  : 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Who  is  he?"  Everard  repeated  :  "  ha,  ha  !  that's  a 
good  joke.  Jfe, — Joe  would  enjoy  that  ;  he  is  a  splendid 
fellow,  I  tell  you." 

"  And  you  owe  him  ?"  Rossie  asked,  her  heart  sinking 
like  lead  at  his  prompt  reply. 

"  Yes,  that's  it ;  you've  hit  the  nail.  I  owe  him  and 
I  must  pay,  and  that's  why  I  sell  my  clothes.  I  owe  him 
money, — him, — that's  capital." 

He  had  told  her  that  he  had  no  debts  and  she  believed 
him,  and  had  been  so  glad,  and  thought  he  had  broken 
from  his  old  associates  and  habits,  and  was  trying  to  do 
better.  And  it  was  not  so  at  all  ;  he  had  not  broken 
off  ;  he  still  had  dealings  with  a  mysterious  Joe,  who- 
ever he  might  be.  Some  great  hulking  fellow,  no  doubt, 
who  drank,  and  raced,  and  gambled,  and  had  led  Ever- 
ard astray.  Rossie's  heart  was  very  sad  and  her  voice 
full  of  vsorrow  as  she  asked  next  : 

"  Was  it  gambling  ?  Was  it  at  play  that  you  in- 
curred this  debt  ?" 

"  Yes,  by  George,  you've  hit  it  again  !"  he  exclaimed, 
catching  at  the  word /to/.  "It  was  a  play,  and  for  fun 
I  thought  at  first,  but  it  proved  to  be  the  real  thing, — a 
lark, — a  sell, — a  trap.  By  Jove,  I  b'lieve  it  was  a  trap, 
and  they  meant  me  to  fall  into  it ;  I  do,  upon  my  word, 
and  I  fell,  and  now  Joe  must  have  fifty  dollars  from 
me." 

"  Fifty  dollars  !"  and  Rossie  gasped  at  the  enormous 
Bum. 

Where  would  he  get  it?  Where  could  he  get  it? 
Not  from  his  father,  that  was  certain,  and  not  from  her, 
for  her  quarterly  interest  on  her  two  thousand  dollars 
was  not  due  in  weeks,  and  even  if  it  were,  it  was  not 
fifty  dollars.  Perhaps  Miss  Belknap  would  loan  it  if  she 
were  to  ask  her,  and  assume  the  payment  herself.  But 
in  that  case  she  must  give  the  reason,  and  she  would  not 
for  the  world  compromise  Everard  by  so  much  as  a 
breath  of  censure.  Bee  must  think  well  of  him  at  all 


EVERARD.  65 

costs,  for  Rossie's  heart  was  quite  as  much  set  on  Bea- 
trice's being  the  mistress  of  Forrest  House,  some  day,  as 
the  mother's  had  been.  She  could  not  borrow  of  Miss 
Belknap,  but, — Rossie  started  from  her  chair  as  quickly 
as  if  she  had  been  struck,  while  her  hands  involuntarily 
clutched  her  luxuriant  hair,  rippling  in  heavy  masses 
-«  down  her  back.  She  could  do  that  for  Mr.  Everard,  but 
her  face  was  white  to  her  lips,  which  quivered  a  little  as 
she  resumed  her  seat,  and  said  : 

"  What  is  Joe's  other  name  ?     Joe  what  ?" 

Everard  looked  at  her  cunningly  a  moment,  and  then 
replied  : 

"  Guess  !" 

"  I  can't,"  she  replied,  "  I  have  nothing  to  start 
from  ;  nothing  to  guide  me ;  I  might  guess  all  day,  and 
not  get  it." 

"  Suppose  you  start  with  some  kind  of  fruit,  say 
pears.  What  varieties  have  we  in  our  garden  ?"  he  said  ; 
and  Rossie  answered  : 

"  There  are  the  Seckels.     Is  it  Joe  Seckels  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Joe  Bartlett  ?" 

"No." 

"Joe  Bell?" 

"No." 

"  Joe  Vergelieu  ?" 

"No." 

"Joe  Sheldon?" 

"No." 

"  There's  the  Louise  Bonne  de  Jersey.  It  can't  be 
Joe  Bonne  de  Jersey." 

"No,  stupid."  . 

"  Well,  Flemish  Beauty  ?     It  can't  be  that." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  Joe  is  a  beauty,  and  a  Flemish 
one,  if  you  change  the  sh  into  ng.  No,  try  'em  again." 

"Joe  Fleming?"  Rossie  asked,  and  with  an  insane 
chuckle  Everard  replied  : 

"  You  bet!  Rossie,  you  are  a  brick  !  You  are  a 
trump  !  You've  hit  it  exactly, — Joe  Fleming." 

Rossie  had  in  her  pocket  a  pencil,  and  on  a  bit  of 
newspaper  wrote  the  name  rapidly,  and  then  asked  : 

"  Does  he  live  in  Amherst  ?" 

"No." 


66  EVE  BAUD. 


"  In  Ellicottville  ?" 

"No." 

"  Well,  then,  in  Holburton,  where  you  were  last 
summer.  Didn't  you  board  with  a  Fleming  ?" 

"You  are  right  again.  He  lives  in  Ilolburton," 
Evcrard  replied,  laughing  immoderately  at  the  idea  of 
he  as  applied  to  Josephine. 

Thus  far  he  had  answered  all  Rossie's  questions  cor- 
rectly, but  when  she  said,  "Tell  me,  please,  his  right 
name.  Is  it  Joel,  or  Joseph,  or  what?"  the  old  look  of 
cunning  leaped  into  his  eyes,  and  he  answered  her  : 

"No,  you  don't.  Joe  is  enough  for  you  to  know. 
Besides,  why  are  you  questioning  me  so  closely?  What 
are  yon  going  to  do?" 

"  I'm  going  to  try  and  get  you  out  of  your  trouble," 
Rossie  said,  and  starting  up  in  bed,  Everard  exclaimed  : 

"  Get  me  out  of  the  scrape  !  Oh,  Rossie,  if  you  only 
would, — if  you  only  could  !" 

"  I  can,  I  will  !"  Rossie  said,  emphatically,  and  he 
continued  : 

"Out  of  every  single  bit  of  it? — the  whole  thing,  so 
I'll  be  free  again  ?" 

"Yes,"  Rossie  answered  at  random  ;  "I  think,  I  am 
sure,  I  will.  But  you  must  keep  very  quiet  and  not  get 
excited,  or  talk.  Try  to  sleep,  and  I'll  fix  it  for  you 
beautifully." 

How  hopeful  she  was,  and  the  delirious  man  believed 
and  trusted  in  her,  arid  promised  to  sleep  while  she  was 
gone  to  fix  it. 

"But  it  may  take  a  few  days,  you  know,"  she  said, 
"so  you  must  be  patient,  and  wait." 

lie  acceded  to  everything,  and  closed  his  eyes  as  she 
left  the  room  and  repaired  to  her  own,  where  she  went 
straight  to  the  glass,  and  letting  out  her  heavy  braids  of 
hair,  suffered  it  to  fall  over  her  shoulders  like  a  vail. 
Then  Rossie  studied  herself,  and  saw  a  thin  face,  with 
great,  wide-open,  black  eyes,  which  would  look  larger, 
more  wide-open  still,  with  all  that  hair  gone.  What  a 
fright  she  would  be  without  her  hair,  which  was  beauti- 
ful. Bee  Belknap  had  said  so,  others  had  said  so,  and, 
if  she  was  not  mistaken,  Everard  had  said  so,  too,  and 
for  his  sake  she'd  like  to  keep  it,  though  for  his  sake  she 
was  deciding  to  part  with  it.  Maybe  he  did  not  think 


THE    RESULT.  67 

it  pretty,  after  all.  She  wished  she  knew  ;  and,  yielding 
to  a  sudden  impulse,  she  went  back  to  his  room  with  all 
her  shining  tresses  about  her,  and  so  astonished  him 
that  he  called  out  : 

"  Halloo,  Lady  Godiva  !  '  Are  you  going  to  ride 
through  the  town,  clothed  with  modesty  ?" 

Rossie  was  not  well  versed  in  Tennyson,  and  knew 
nothing  of  Lady  Godiva,  but  she  said  to  him  : 

"  Mr.  Everard,  do  you  think  my  hair  pretty  ?" 

"Nothing  extra," 'was  his  reply.  "I've  seen  hair 
handsomer  than  that.  Don't  be  vain,  Rossie.  You  will 
never  be  a  beauty,  hair  or  no  hair." 

Her  pride  was  hurt  a  little,  but  her  mind  was  made 
up,  and  retiring  to  her  room  and  fastening  herself  in, 
she  sat  down  to  write  to  Joe  Fleming. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  RESULT. 


EASON  said  to  her,  "  Perhaps  there  is  no  such 
person  as  Joe  Fleming.  Mr.  Everard  is 
crazy  and  does  not  know  what  he  is  saying  ;" 
but  to  this  Rossie  replied,  "That  may  be,  but 
even  then  there  can  be  no  harm  in  writing. 
The  letter  will  go  to  the  dead-letter  office  and  no  one 
be  the  wiser,  and  if  there  is  a  Joe,  he  deserves  to  have  a 
piece  of  ray  rnind.  I  shall  write  any  way."  And  she 
did  write,  and  this  is  a  copy  of  the  letter  : 

"  FOKREST  HOUSE,  ROTHSAY,  OHIO,      ) 
"August  3d,  18—.  j" 

"MB.  FLEMIXG — Sir:  I  take  the  liberty  of  writing 
to  you,  because  I  think  you  ought  to  know  how  sick  Mr. 
Everard  Forrest  is,  and  how  much  he  is  troubled  about 
the  money  he  owes  you.  He  was  thrown  from  a  car- 
riage and  hurt,  more  than  ten  days  ago,  and  his  mother 
died  that  same  night,  and  you  wrote  for  money,  and 
everything  together  made  him  very  sick  and  out  of  hia 


68  THE    RESULT. 

head,  and  that  is  the  way  I  came  to  know  about  you  and 
that  gambling  debt  of  his.  I  am  Rosamond  Hastings,  a 
little  girl  who  lives  in  the  family,  and  Mr.  Everard  is 
like  a  brother  to  me,  and  I  take  care  of  him,  and  heard 
him  talk  of  Joe  and  money  which  he  had  to  pay,  and  he 
wanted  to  sell  his  clothes  to  raise  it,  and  I  found  out 
from  him  that  your  name  was  Fleming,  and  that  he 
owed  you  fifty  dollars  which  must  be  paid  at  once. 

"  I  suppose  rnen  would  call  it  a  debt  of  honor,  but, 
Mr.  Fleming,  do  you  think  it  right  to  gamble  and  entice 
young  men  like  Mr.  Everard  to  play  ?  I  think  it  is  very 
wicked,  and  dishonorable,  and  disreputable,  and  that  you 
ought  not  to  expect  him  to  pay.  Why,  he  cannot,  for 
he  has  no  money  of  his  own,  and  his  father  would  not 
give  it  to  him  for  that,  and  would  be  so  very  angry  that 
whatever  comes  he  must  never  know  it, — never. 

"  Xow,  wrill  you  give  up  the  debt  and  not  bother  him 
any  more?  If  you  will,  please  write  to  him  and  say  so. 
If  you  will  not,  write  to  me,  and  I  shall  try  what  I  can 
do,  for  Mr.  Everard  must  not  be  troubled  with  it. 

"  Hoping  you  will  excuse  me,  and  that  you  will  re- 
form and  be  a  better  man,  I  am, 

"Yours  respectfully, 

"  ROSAMOND  HASTINGS." 

"P.  S. — You  are  not  to  suppose  that  Mr.  Everard 
knows  I  am  writing,  for  he  does  not ;  nor  are  you  to 
think  that  he  has  spoken  ill  of  you  in  his  delirium.  On 
the  contrary,  I  imagine  that  he  likes  you  very  much  in- 
deed, and  so  I  am  led  to  hope  that  there  is  much  good 
in  you,  and  that  you  will  not  only  release  him,  but  quit 
gambling  j-ourself." 

She  sealed  the  letter,  and  directing  it  to  "ME.  JOE 
FLEMING,  ESQ.,  Ilolburton,  Mass.,"  posted  it  herself, 
and  then  anxiously  waited  the  answer. 

Three  days  laler,  and  the  clerk  in  the  post-office  at 
Ilolburton  said,  in  reply  to  Josey's  inquiry  for  letters  : 

"There's  one  here  for  Mr.  Joe  Fleming  ;  that  can't 
be  you." 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  Josey  said  ;  and  when  she  saw  that 
it  was  from  Rothsay,  Ohio,  she  continued  :  "It  is  for 
me,  and  it  is  done  for  a  joke.  I  will  take  it." 

Then,  hurrying  home,  she  broke  the  seal  and  read 


THE    RESULT.  69 

the  curious  letter,  amid  screams  of  convulsive  laughter, 
which  brought  both  her  mother  and  Agnes  to  her 
side. 

"Look  here  ;  just  listen,  will  yon?"  she  said,  "some- 
body thinks  I'm  a  man,  and  a  gambler,  and  everything 
bad."  And  she  read  the  letter  aloud,  while  the  tears 
ran  down  her  face,  and  she  grew  almost  hysterical  with 
her  glee.  "  Did  you  ever  know  a  richer  joke?  What 
a  stupid  thing  that  girl  must  be,"  she  said. 

But  Agnes  made  no  reply,  and  went  quietly  back  to 
her  work,  while  Josephine  read  the  letter,  a  third  time, 
feeling  a  little  sorry  for  and  a  little  anxious  about  Ever- 
ard.  Rossie's  postscript  that  he  seemed  to  like  her  very 
much  touched  her  and  brought  something  like  moisture 
to  her  eyes  ;  but  she  never  for  a  moment  thought  of  giv- 
ing up  the  debt.  She  must  have  the  fifty  dollars,  for 
the  brown  silk  was  nearly  finished,  and  the  merchant  ex- 
pected his  money,  so  she  wrote  to  Rossie  as  follows : 

"  HOLBURTOX,  August  7th,  18 — . 
"  Miss  ROSAMOND  HASTINGS  : — 

"  Your  letter  is  received,  and  though  I  am  very  sorry 
for  Mr.  Forrest's  illness,  and  agree  with  you  that  it  is 
wrong  to  gamble,  I  must  still  insist  upon  the  money,  as 
I  am  in  great  want  of  it,  and  Mr.  Forrest  will  tell  you 
that  my  claim  is  a  just  one.  I  may  as  well  add  that 
twenty-five  dollars  more  are  due  me,  which  I  shall  be 
glad  to  have  you  send.  I  have  written  Mr.  Forrest 
about  it,  but  presume  he  has  not  been  able  to  attend  to  it. 
"  Hoping  he  is  better,  I  am 

"  Yours  truly, 

"JoE  FLEMING." 

Josephine's  handwriting  was  large  and  plain,  and  she 
took  great  pains  to  make  it  still  plainer  and  more  mascu- 
line, and  Rossie,  when  she  received  the  letter,  had  no 
suspicion  that  it  was  not  written  by  a  man.  Hastily 
breaking  the  seal,  she  read,  with  sinking  heart,  that  the 
money  must  be  paid,  and,  worse  than  all,  that  it  was 
seventy-five  instead  of  fifty  dollars,  as  she  had  supposed. 
And  she  must  raise  it,  and  save  Mr.  Everard  from  all 
further  trouble  and  anxiety.  He  was  better  now,  and 
very  quiet,  and  had  allowed  her  to  remove  the  satchel 
of  clothes  from  his  bed.  Occasionally  he  spoke  to  her 


70  THE    RESULT. 

of  Joe,  and  asked  if  she  was  sure  she  could  help  him  out 
of  the  scrape. 

"Yes,  sure,"  was  always  the  reply  of  the  brave  lit- 
tle girl  ;  and   she   must  keep   her  word   at  the   sacrifice 
of  what  she  held  most  dear,  her  abundant  and  beautiful 
•hair. 

Rossie's  mind  was  made  up,  and,  after  lunch  was  over, 
she  started  for  Elm  Park,  where  Miss  Belknap  lived. 
Bee  was  at  home,  and  glad  to  see  her  little  friend.  She 
was  very  fond  of  Rossie,  whose  quaint,  old-fashioned 
ways  amused  and  rested  her  ;  and  she  took  her  at  once 
to  the  pretty  blue  chamber,  which  Rossie  admired  so 
much,  and  which  seemed  so  in  keeping  with  its  lovely 
mistress.  All  Bee's  tastes  were  of  the  most  luxurious 
kind,  and,  as  she  had  no  lack  of  means,  she  gratified 
them  to  the  full.  The  fever,  which  had  deprived  her  of 
her  hair,  had  hurt  her  pride  sorely  ;  for  the  wig  which 
she  was  wearing  until  her  own  hair  grew  again  was  not 
a  success,  and  she  chafed  against  it,  and  hated  herself 
every  time  she  looked  in  the  glass  ;  and  when  Rosamond, 
who  could  not  wait  lest  her  courage  should  fail  her,  said, 
"  Miss  Beatrice,  are  you  in  earnest  about  my  hair?  Will 
you  buy  it  now  ?"  she  answered, 

"  Buy  it  ?    Yes,  in  a  moment." 

"And  give  me  seventy-five  dollars  ?"  Rossie  faltered, 
ashamed  of  herself  for  asking  this  enormous  sum. 

But  it  did  not  at  all  appall  Miss  Belknap.  Seventy- 
five  dollars  was  nothing  if  she  wished  for  anything,  and 
she  did  want  Rossie's  hair.  It  was  just  the  color  and 
texture  of  her  own,  and  she  could  have  such  a  natural- 
looking  wig  made  of  it. 

"Yes,  give  you  seventy-five  dollars  willingly;"  she 
said.  "But  it  seems  very  mean  and  selfish  in  me  to  take 
it,"  she  continued  ;  and  Rossie,  fearful  lest  the  bargain 
should  fall  through,  answered  eagerly  : 

"  Oh,  no,  it  don't.  I  want  the  money  very  much  in- 
deed. I  am  anxious  to  sell  it,  and,  if  you  do  not  buy  it, 
I  shall  go  to  some  one  else.  But  you  must  not  ask  me 
why, — I  can't  tell  that ;  only,  it  is  not  for  myself, — it's 
for  a  friend  ;  I  don't  think  the  hair  worth  seventy-five 
dollars,  but  that  is  what  I  must  have,  and  so  I  asked  it. 
Maybe  if  you  can  give  me  fifty,  and  loan  me  twenty- 
five,  I  can  pay  it  when  my  allowance  is  due." 


THE    RESULT.  71 

"  You  conscientious  little  chit,"  Bee  said,  laugh- 
ingly, "  you  have  not  yet  learned  the  world's  creed, — 
take  all  you  can  get.  I  am  willing  to  give  yon  seventy- 
five  dollars,  and,  even  at  that  price,  think  it  cheap.  But 
yon  are  a  little  girl,  and  will  not  look  badly  with  short 
hair." 

With  her  natural  shrewdness  and  her  knowledge  of 
some  of  Everard's  shortcomings,  Bee  guessed  that  it  was 
for  him  the  sacrifice  was  ma  le,  and,  when  the  barber's  scis- 
sors gleamed  among  the  shining  tresses,  she  saw  that  they 
did  not  cut  too  close  and  make  the  girl  a  fright.  But 
the  loss  of  her  hair  changed  Rossie  very  much,  and  when 
she  went  back  to  the  Forrest  House  she  shrank  from  the 
eyes  of  the  servants,  and  stole  up  to  her  own  room, 
where  she  could  inspect  herself  freely,  and  see  just  how 
she  looked. 

"  Oh,  how  ugly  I  am,  and  how  big  my  eyes  are  !" . 
she  said,  and  two  hot  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  ;  but 
she  resolutely  dashed   them  away,  and   thought,  u  His 
mother  would  be  so  glad  if  she  knew  I  was  doing  it  for 
him." 

And  the  memory  of  the  dead  woman,  who  had  been 
so  kind  to  her,  helped  her.  For  her  sake  she  could  bear 
almost  anything,  and,  putting  on  her  hat,  she  left  the 
house  again,  going  this  time  to  the  office  of  the  family 
lawyer,  Mr.  Russell,  a  kind,  elderly  man,  who  was  very 
fond  of  Rossie,  and  at  once  put  aside  his  papers  when 
she  came  in. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  to-day  ?"  he  asked,  and 
she  replied  : 

"  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  write  me  just  such  a  receipt 
as  you  would  write  if  somebody  owed  you  seventy-five 
dollars  and  you  paid  it  in  full.  Don't  ask  me  anything, 
only  write  it,  and  make  it  read  as  if  the  debtor  didn't 
owe  the  creditor  a  penny  after  the  date." 

31  r.  Russell  looked  curiously  at  the  flushed  face  raised 
so  eagerly  to  him,  and  in  part  guessed  her  secret.  Like 
Bee,  he  knew  of  Everard's  expensive  habits,  a.id  sus- 
pected that  this  money  had  something  to  do  with  him. 
But  he  merely  said  : 

"  What  name  shall  I  use  ?  The  receipt  will  read  like 
this:  *  Received  of, — blank, — seventy-five  dollars,'  and 
so  forth,  Sow,  how  shall  I  fill  the  blank  ?" 


72  THE    RESULT. 

Rossie  thought  a  moment,  and  then  replied  : 

"  Will  it  make  any  difference  who  writes  the  re- 
ceipt ?" 

"Not  at  all;  the  signature  is  what  gives  it  its 
value." 

"  Then  will  you  please  give  me  a  form, — a  true  one, 
you  know, — which  I  can  copy  and  send,  and  ought  I  not 
to  register  the  letter  to  make  it  safe  V" 

She  was  quite  a  little  business  woman,  and  the  old 
lawyer  looked  at  her  admiringly  as  he  gave  her  the  neces- 
sary directions,  suggesting  that  a  draft  or  post-office 
order  would  be  better  than  to  send  the  money.  But 
Rossie  did  not  care  for  so  much  publicity  as  she  fancied 
drafts  and  post-office  orders  would  involve.  She  pre- 
ferred to  send  the  bills,  a  fifty,  a  twenty,  and  a  five, 
directly  to  Joe,  and  she  did  so  that  very  afternoon,  for, 
as  good  luck  would  have  it,  Beatrice  asked  her  to  drive 
to  an  adjoining  town,  where  she  registered  and  posted 
her  letter,  and  felt  as  if  a  weight  were  lifted  from  her 
mind.  She  had  no  suspicion  of  Joe's  playing  her  false. 
He  would,  of  course,  return  the  receipt,  and  Mr.  Everard 
would  be  free,  and  her  heart  was  almost  as  light  as  her 
head  when  she  returned  home  and  went  to  Everard's 
room.  That  poor  shorn  head,  how  it  stared  at  her  in  the 
glass,  and  how  she  tried  to  brush  up  the  short,  wavy  hair, 
and  make  the  most  of  it.  But  do  the  best  she  could,  she 
presented  rather  a  forlorn  appearance  when  she  went  in 
to  Everard,  and  asked  him  how  he  was. 

He  had  missed  her  very  much  that  day,  and  greeted 
her  with  a  bright  smile,  so  much  like  himself,  that  she 
exclaimed,  joyfully  : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Everard,  you  are  better  ;  you  are  almost 
well!" 

He  was  better,  but  his  mind  was  still  unsettled,  and 
running  upon  the  scrape  from  which  Rossie  was  to  ex- 
tricate him,  and  he  said  to  her  : 

"  Have  you  fixed  it  yet  ?     Is  it  all  right  ?" 

"  Yes,  all  right,"  she  answered  ;  and  he  continued  : 

"  Every  single  bit  right?  Ami  cut  loose  from  the 
whole  thing  ?" 

She  thought  he  was,  and  soothed  him  into  quiet  until 
he  suddenly  noticed  her  head,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Halloa,  what  have  you  been  doing  ?     Where's  your 


THE    RESULT.  73 

hair  ?  Have  you  taken  it  off  and  laid  it  in  the  drawer 
as  mother  used  to  do  ?  I  thought  yours  was  a  different 
sort  from  that ;  not  store  hair,  but  genuine.  I  say, 
Rossie,  you  look  like  a  guy." 

She  knew  he  was  not  responsible  for  what  he  said, 
but  it  hurt  her  all  the  same,  and  tears  sprang  to  her 
eyes  as  she  answered  him  : 

"My  hair  was  very  heavy  and  very  warm  this  hot, 
sultry  weather.  I  am  sorry  you  do  not  like  my  looks. 
It  will  grow  again  in  time." 

That  was  Rossie's  one  comfort.  Her  hair  would 
grow  again,  and  she  met  bravely  the  exclamations  of  her 
girl  friends  and  of  the  servants,  who  asked  her  number- 
less questions.  But  she  kept  her  own  counsel,  and 
waited  impatiently  for  the  assurance  that  the  money  had 
gone  in  safety  to  Holburton.  It  came  at  last,  on  the 
very  day  when  Everard  began  to  seem  like  himself,  and 
spoke  to  those  about  him  rationally  and  naturally.  His 
reason  had  returned,  and  his  first  question  to  Rossie  was 
to  ask  if  any  letters  had  come  to  him  during  his  illness, 
and  his  second,  to  interrogate  her  with  regard  to  her 
hair,  and  why  she  had  cut  it  off.  She  told  him  the  old 
story  of  its  being  heavy  and  warm,  and  then  hastened  to 
bring  his  letters,  of  which  she  had  taken  charge.  She 
was  certain  that  some  of  them  were  from  Joe  Fleming, 
though  the  handwriting  was  much  finer  than  that  which 
had  come  to  her  in  that  morning's  mail.  Joe  had  sent 
back  the  receipt  without  a  word  of  comment,  but  Rossie 
did  not  care  for  that ;  she  only  felt  that  Everard  was 
free,  and  she  had  the  receipt  in  her  pocket,  and  her  face 
was  almost  pretty  in  her  bright  eagerness  and  gladness 
as  she  came  to  his  bedside  and  handed  him  his  letters. 
Three  were  from  college  chums,  and  three  from  Jose- 
phine. These  he  opened  first,  beginning  with  the  one 
bearing  the  oldest  date.  She  had  not  then  heard  of  his 
mother's  death,  and  she  wrote  for  more  money, — twenty- 
five  dollars  more,  which  were  absolutely  neede*d. 
Seventy-five  in  all  it  was  now,  and  the  perspiration 
started  from  every  pore  and  stood  thickly  on  Everard's 
forehead  and  about  his  lips,  as,  with  an  involuntary 
moan,  he  dropped  the  letter  from  his  nerveless  hand  and 
turned  his  eyes  toward  Rossie,  not  with  a  thought  that 
she  could  help  him,  only  with  a  feeling  that  he  would 

4 


74  THE    RESULT. 

tell  her,  and  ask  her  what  to  do,  and  if  it  were  not 
better  to  leave  college  at  once,  acknowledge  his  mar- 
riage, and  hire  out  as  a  day  laborer,  if  nothing  better 
offered. 

.  She  saw  the  hunted,  hopeless  expression  in  his  eyes, 
and  guessed  the  cause  of  it.  In  hers  there  was  a  great 
gladness  shining,  as  she  said  : 

"  I,  am  almost  certain  that  letter  is  from  .Mr.  Joe 
Fleming,  and  I  have  one  from  him,  too,  or  rather,  a 
receipt  in  full  for  the  gambling  debt !"  and  taking  the 
receipt  from  her  pocket,  she  handed  it  to  Everard,  and 
watched  him  while  he  read  it. 

There  it  was  in  black  and  white,  an  acknowledgment 
of  seventy-five  dollars,  and  a  receipt  in  full  of  all  Ever- 
ard Forrest's  indebtedness  to  Joe  Fleming  up  to  that 
date.  What  did  it  mean  ?  What  could  it  mean  ?  Ever- 
ard asked,  while  through  his  mind  there  flitted  a  vague 
remembrance  of  something  about  Joe,  and  money,  arid 
the  scrape. from  which  Rossie  was  to  extricate  him. 

"Rossie,  tell  me,  what  do  you  know  of  Joe  ?  What 
does  it  mean  ?"  he  asked,  and  then  Rossie  told  him  how 
he  had  raved  about  a  Joe,  to  whom  he  said  he  owed 
money,  and  how  once,  when  he  seemed  a  little  rational, 
she  had  questioned  him,  and  found  out  that  the  man  was 
Joe  Fleming,  who  lived  in  Holburton,  and  to  whom  he 
owed  fifty  dollars  which  he  could  not  pay. 

"You  had  your  best  clothes  in  your  valise  on  the 
bed,  and  were  going  to  sell  them  to  get  it,"  Rossie  said, 
"and  I  felt  so  sorry  for  you  that  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Fleming 
myself,  and  told  him  what  I  thought  about  such  debts, 
and  how  sick  and  crazy  you  were,  and  your  mother  just 
dead,  and  you  no  way  to  pay,  and  asked  him  to  give  up 
the  debt."' 

"Yes,  , yes,"  Everard  gasped,  while  his  face  grew 
white  as  ashes  ;  and  still  he  could  not  forbear  a  smile  at 
the  mistake  with  regard  to  Joe's  sex,  a  mistake  of  which 
he  was  very  glad,  however.  ."Yes,"  he  continued,  "you 
wrote  all  this,  and  what  was  the  reply  ?" 

"Just  what  you  might  expect  from  the  bad,  unprin- 
cipled, grasping  man,"  Rossie  said,  energetically,  shaking 
her  shorn  head.  "I  told  him  it  was  wrong  to  gamble 
and  tempt  you  to  play,  and  told  him  how  sick  you  were, 
and  how  angry  your  father  would  be,  and  added  that,  if 


THE    RESULT.  73 

after  all  this,  he  still  insisted  upon  the  money,  he  was 
not  to  trouble  you,  but  write  directly  to  me,  and  he  was 
mean  enough  to  do  it.  He  said  he  was  sorry  you  were 
sick,  but  he  must  have  the  money,  and  that  you  owed 
him  seventy-five,  and  you  would  tell  me  he  had  a  right 
to  ask  it." 

"  Yes,"  Everard  said  again,  but  the  yes  was  like  a 
groan,  and  every  muscle  of  his  face  twitched  painfully, 
"yes.  He  wrote  this  to  you,  and  you  raised  the  money  ; 
but  how?" 

Rosamond  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  replied  : 

"Do  you  remember  I  told  you  that  Miss  Belknap 
once  offered  to  buy  my  hair  ?" 

"Oh,  Rossie!"  Everard  exclaimed,  as  the  truth 
flashed  upon  him,  making  the  plain  face  of  that  heroic 
littte  girl  seem  like  the  face  of  an  angel, — "  oh,  Rossie, 
you  sold  your  beautiful  hair  for  me,  a  scamp,  a  sneak,  a 
coward  !  Oh,  why  did  you  humiliate  me  so,  and  make 
me  hate  and  loathe  myself  ?"  and  in  his  great  weakness 
and  utter  shame  Everard  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

Rosamond  was  crying,  too, — was  shedding  bitter 
tears  of  disappointment  that  she  had  made  the  great 
sacrifice  for  nothing  except  to  displease  Mr.  Everard. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  thought  you 
would  like  it.  I  did  not  want  you  to  sell  your  clothes, — 
did  not  want  your  father  to  know.  I  meant  to  do  right. 
I  am  sorry  you  are  angry." 

"  Angry  !"  and  in  the  eyes  which  looked  at  Rossie 
there  was  anything  but  anger.  "  I  am  not  angry  except 
with  myself ;  only  I  am  so  mortified,  so  ashamed.  I 
think  you  the  dearest,  most  unselfish  person  in  the  world. 
Who  else  would  have  done  what  you  have?" 

"  Oh,  ever  so  many,"  Rossie  said,  "  if  they  were  sorry 
for  you  and  loved  you ;  for,  Mr.  Everard,  I  am  so  sorry, 
and  I  lov-e  you  a  heap,  and  then, — and  then,  I  did  it 
some  because  I  thought  your  mother  would  like  it  if  she 
knew." 

Rosamond's  lip  quivered  as  she  said  this,  and  there 
was  such  a  pitiful  look  in  her  soft  eyes  that  Everard 
raised  himself  in  bed,  and  drawing  her  toward  him,  took 
the  thin  little  face  between  his  hands  and  kissed  it  ten- 


76  THE    RESULT. 

derly,  while  his  tears  flowed  afresh  at  the  mention  of  his 
dead  mother,  who  had  been  so  much  to  him. 

"Rossie,"  he  said,  "  what  can  I  ever  do  to  show  you 
how  much  I  appreciate  all  you  have  done  for,  and  all 
you  are  to  me  ?'' 

The  girl  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said  : 

"If  you  will  promise  never  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  Joe  Fleming,  I  shall  be  so  happy,  for  I  am  sure  he 
is  a  bad  man,  and  leads  you  into  mischief.     Will  you 
promise  not  to  go  near  Joe  Fleming  again  ?" 
Everard  groaned  as  he  answered  her  : 

"  You  do  not  know  what  you  ask.  I  cannot  break 
with  Joe  Fleming.  I, — oh,  Rossie,  I  am  a  coward,  a 
fool,  and  I  wish  I  were  dead, — I  do,  upon  my  word  ! 
But  there  is  one  thing  I  can  promise  you,  and  I  will.  I 
pledge  myself  solemnly,  from  this  day  forth,  never  to 
touch  a  card  of  any  kind  in  the  way  of  gambling,  never 
to  touch  a  drop  of  spirits,  or  a  cigar,  or  a  fast  horse,  or 
to  bet,  or  do  anything  of  which  you  would  not  approve." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  Rossie  said,  "  and  to  make  it  quite 
sure,  suppose  you  sign  something  just  as  they  do  the 
pledge  to  keep  from  drinking." 

He  did  not  quite  know  what  she  meant,  but  he  an- 
swered, unhesitatingly  : 

"I'll  sign  anything  you  choose  to  bring  me." 

"  I'm  going  to  write  it  now,"  Rossie  said,  and  the 
next  moment  she  left  the  room,  and  Everard  was  free  to 
finish  his  letters  alone. 

Taking  the  second  one  from  Josephine,  he  read  that 
she  was  sorry  to  hear  of  his  affliction,  and  wished  she 
could  comfort  him,  and  that  it  must  be  a  consolation  for 
him  to  know  that  his  mother  was  in  heaven,  where  he 
would  one  day  meet  her  if  he  was  a  good  man. 

This  attempt  at  piety  disgusted  Everard,  who  knew 
how  little  Josephine  cared  for  anything  sacred,  and 
how  prone  she  was  to  ridicule  what  she  called  pious 
people. 

Immediately  following  this  mention  of  his  mother, 
she  said  she  was  missing  and  longing  for  him  so  much, 
and  hoped  he  would  write  at  once,  and  send  her  the 
money  for  which  she  was  obliged  to  ask  him.  Then  she 
added  the  following  : 

"I  find  myself  in  rather  a  peculia:-  position.     So  long 


THE    RESULT.  77 

as  I  am  known  as  Miss  Fleming,  I  shall  of  course  be  sub- 
ject to  the  attentions  of  gentlemen,  and  what  am  I  to 
do  ?  Shall  I  go  on  as  usual, — discreetly,  of  course, — and 
receive  whatever  attentions  are  paid  to  me,  never  allow- 
ing any  one  to  get  so  far  as  an  offer  ?  I  ask  you  this 
because  I  wish  to  please  you,  and  because,  since  my  mar- 
riage, it  seems  as  if  so  many  men  were  inclined  to  be 
polite  to  me.  Even  old  Captain  Sparks,  the  millionaire, 
has  asked  me  to  ride  after  his  fast  horses  ;  and  as  there 
was  no  reason  which  I  could  give  him  why  I  should  not, 
I  went,  and  he  acted  as  silly  as  an  old  fool  well  can  act. 
Tell  me  your  wishes  in  the  matter,  and  they  shall  be  to 
me  commands." 

For  an  instant  Everard  felt  indignant  at  Captain 
Sparks  for  presuming  to  ride  with  and  say  silly  things 
to  Josephine,  but  when  he  reflected  a  moment  he  knew 
that  to  the  captain  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
not  do  so.  Josephine  was  to  him  a  young,  marriageable 
maiden,  and  rumor  said  that  the  old  man  was  looking 
for  a  fourth  wife,  and  as  he  would,  of  course,  look  only 
at  the  young  girls,  it  was  natural  for  him  to  single  out 
Josephine  as  an  object  of  favor. 

"  Josey  must,  of  course,  hold  her  place  as  an  unmar- 
ried person,"  he  thought,  "  but  oh  !  the  horror  of  this  de- 
ception. I'd  give  worlds  to  undo  the  work  of  that  night." 

He  thought  so  more  than  ever  when  he  read  the  third 
and  last  letter,  in  which,  after  expressing  her  sorrow  and 
concern  for  his  sickness,  she  told  him  of  her  correspond- 
ence with  Rosamond,  and  which,  as  it  gives  a  still  clearer 
insight  into  the  young  lady's  character,  we  give,  in  part, 
to  the  reader  : 

"  DEAR  EVERARD  : — What  do  you  suppose  has  hap- 
pened ?  Why,  I  laughed  until  I  nearly  split  my  sides, 
and  I  almost  scream  every  time  I  think  of  the  funny  let- 
ter I  got  from  Rosamond  Hastings,  the  little  girl  who 
lives  with  you,  and  who  actually  thinks  I  am  a  man,  a 
bad,  good-for-nothing,  gambling,  swearing  man,  who 
leads  you  into  all  sorts  of  scrapes,  and  to  whom  you  owe 
money.  It  seems  she  gathered  this  when  you  were  crazy, 
and  took  it  upon  herself  to  write  to  Mr.  Joe  Fleming, — 
that's  what  she  called  me,— and  lecture  him  soundly  on 
his  badness.  You  ought  to  hear  her  once  ;  but  I'll  keep 


78  THE    RESULT. 

the  letter  and  show  you.  She  wished  me  to  give  up  the 
debt,  which  she  took  for  granted  was  a  gambling  one,  but 
said  if  I  would  not  I  must  write  to  her  and  not  trouble 
you.  Now,  I  suppose  it  would  have  been  generous  and 
nice  in  me  to  say  I  did  not  care  for  the  money,  but  you 
see  I  did  ;  I  must  have  it  to  pay  my  bills;  and  so  I  wrote 
to  her  and  said  you  would  tell  her  my  claim  was  a 
just  one,  if  she  asked  you  about  it.  In  due  time  she 
sent  me  seventy-five  dollars,  though  how  she  raised  it  I 
am  sure  I  cannot  guess,  unless  she  coaxed  it  from  your 
father,  and  I  hardly  think  she  did  that,  as  she  seemed  in 
great  fear  lest  he  should  know  that  you  owed  Joe 
Fleming  !  She  is  a  good  business  woman,— for,  accom- 
panying the  money  was  a  receipt,  correctly  drawn  up,  and 
declaring  you  discharged  in  full  from  all  indebtedness 
to  me.  I  wonder  what  the  child  would  have  done  if  I 
had  not  returned  it,  and  just  for  the  mischief  of  it  I 
thought  once  I  wouldn't,  for  a  while  at  least,  and  see 
what  she  would  do.  But  Agnes  made  such  a  fuss  that 
I  thought  better  of  it,  and  shall  send  the  receipt  in  the 
same  mail  which  takes  this  to  you.  By  the  way,  you've 
no  idea  how  much  Agnes  has  you  and  your  interests  at 
heart.  I  believe,  upon  my  word,  she  thinks  you  did  a 
dreadful  thing  to  marry  me  as  you  did,  and  she  says  her 
prayers  in  your  behalf,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  three 
or  four  times  a  day.  Verily,  it  ought  to  make  your 
calling  and  election  sure. 

"  Dr.  Matthewson  was  in  town  yesterday,  and  in- 
quired particularly  for  you.  I  told  him  of  your  mother's 
death,  and  that  I  had  written  to  Clarence  as  he  bade  me 
do,  and  made  inquiries  about  him,  and  had  not  received 
a  very  good  report  of  his  character  as  a  clergyman.  He 
took  it  good-humoredly,  and  said  that  the  Gospel  didn't 
agree  with  him  very  well.  I  like  the  doctor  immensely, 
he  is  so  amusing  and  friendly.  I  hope  you  will  not  care 
because  I  told  him  of  Rosamond's  mistake,  and  showed 
him  her  letter.  How  he  did  roar  !  Why,  he  actually 
laid  down  on  the  grass,  and  rolled  and  kicked,  and  would 
not  believe  me  till  I  showed  him  the  letter.  He  left 
town  this  morning,  saying  he  should  be  here  again  in 
the  fall,  and  would  like  to  board  with  mother. 

"  How  I  hate  this  life, — planning  how  to  get  your 
bread  and  butter, — and  how  glad  I  shall  be  when  I  am 


THE    RESULT.  79 

out  of  it ;  but  I  mean  to  be  patient  and  bear  it,  knowing 
what  happiness  there  is  in  the  future  for  me.  When 
shall  I  see  you,  I  wonder?  Will  you  not  come  as  soon 
as  you  are  able  to  travel  and  spend  the  remainder  of 
your  vacation  with  me  ?  You  will  at  least  stop  here  on 
the  way  to  Amherst,  and  for  that  time  I  live. 

"  Lovingly  yours,  JOE." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  nature  .of 
Evera.rd's  feelings  as  he  read  this  letter,  which  seemed 
to  him  coarse,  and  selfish,  and  heartless  in  the  extreme. 
Couldn't  Josephine  understand  such  a  character  as 
Rossie's,  or  appreciate  the  noble  thing  she  had  done  ? 
Could  she  only  see  in  it  a  pretext  for  laughing  till  "she 
split  her  sides,"  and  was  it  a  nice  thing  in  her  to  tell  Dr. 
Matthewson  of  the  letter,  and  even  show  it  to  him, 
making  him  roll  on  the  grass,  and  roar  and  kick  in  her 
presence  ?  Had  she  no  delicacy  or  refinement,  to  allow 
such  a  thing  ?  Would  any  man  dare  do  that  with  Beaor 
even  Rossie,  child  though  she  was  ?  Was  Josey  devoid  of 
that  womanly  dignity  which  puts  a  man  always  on  his  best 
behavior  ?  lie  feared  she  was,  he  said  sadly  to  himself, 
as  he  recalled  the  free  and  easy  manner  he  had  always 
assumed  with  her.  How  many  times  had  he  sat  with  his 
feet  higher  than  his  head,  and  smoked  directly  in  her 
face,  or  stretching  j  himself  full  length  upon  the  grass 
while  she  sat  beside  him,  laid  his  head  in  her  lap  and 
talked  such  slang  as  he  would  blush  to  have  Rossie  hear; 
and  she  had  laughed,  and  jested,  and  allowed  it  all,  or 
at  the  most  reproved  him  by  asking  if  he  were  not 
ashamed  of  himself.  Josey  was  not  modest  and  woman- 
ly, like  his  mother,  and  Bee,  and  Rosamond.  She  was 
not  like  them  at  all,  and  for  a  moment  there  swept  over 
the  young  man  such  a  feeling  of  revulsion  and  disgust 
that  his  whole  being  rose  up  against  the  position  in 
which  he  was  placed,  and  from  his  inmost  soul  he  cried 
out,  "I  cannot  have  it  so!" 

He  had  sown  the  wind,  and  he  was  beginning  to  reap 
the  whirlwind;  and  it  was  a  very  nervous,  feverish 
patient  which  Rossie  found  when  she  came  back  to  him, 
bringing  the  paper  he  was  to  sign,  and  which  was  to 
keep  him  straight.  She  called  it  a  pledge,  and  it  read  : 

"  I  hereby  solemnly  promise  never  to  drink  a  drop  of 


80  THE    RESULT. 

liquor,  never  to  smoke  a  pipe  or  cigar,  never  to  race  with 
fast  horses,  never  to  play  cards  or  any  other  game  for 
money,  never  to  bet,  and  to  have  just  as  little  to  do  with 
Joe  Fleming  as  I  possibly  can. 

"  Signed" by  ine,  at  the  Forrest  House,  this day  of 

August,  18 — ." 

"  There  !"  Rossie  said,  as  she  read  it  to  him,  and 
offered  him  the  pen  ;  "  you'll  sign  that  and  then  be  very 
safe." 

"  Rossie,"  he  said  vehemently,  "  I  wish  to  Heaven  I 
could  honorably  subscribe  to  the  whole  of  it,  but  I  can- 
not. I  must  erase  the  part  about  Joe  Fleming.  I  cannot 
explain  to  you  why,  but  I  must  keep  my  acquaintance 
with  Joe,  but  I'll  promise  not  to  be  influenced  in  that 
direction  any  more.  Will  that  do?" 

"Yes,  but  I  did  so  hope  yon  would  break  with  him 
entirely.  I  know  he  makes  you  bad.  You  told  me  when 
you  came  home  you  had  no  debts,  and  I  believed  you, 
and  yet  you  owed  this  man  seventy-five  dollars,  and  I 
was  so  sorry  to  find  you  did  not  tell  me  true." 

Rossie's  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  she  said  this,  for 
losing  faith  in  Everard  had  hurt  her  sorely,  but  he  has- 
tened to  reassure  her. 

"Rossie,"  he  said,  "I  did  not  know  of  this  debt 
then.  It  has  come  up  since.  What  I  told  you  was  told 
in  good  faith.  Bad  as  I  am,  I  would  not  tell  a  deliberate 
lie,  and  you  must  believe  me." 

She  did  believe  him,  and  watched  him  as  he  put  his 
pen  through  the  sentence,  "  have  just  as  little  to  do  writh 
Joe  Fleming  as  I  possibly  can,"  and  then  signed  his 
name  to  the  paper. 

"  There  !"  he  said,  as  he  handed  it  to  her  with  a 
sickly  effort  to  smile.  "Keep  it,  Rossie,  and  if  I  break 
that  pledge,  may  I  never  succeed  in  anything  I  under- 
take so  long  as  I  live  ;  and  now  bathe  my  head  with  the 
coldest  ice-water  in  the  house,  for  it  feels  as  if  there  was 
a  bass  drum  in  it." 

He  was  very  restless  and  nervous,  and  did  not  im- 
prove as  fast  as  the  doctor  had  said  he  would,  if  once 
his  reason  returned.  Indeed,  for  a  few  days  he  did  not 
seem  to  improve  at  all,  and  Beatrice  and  Rosamond  both 
nursed  him  tenderly,  and  pitied  him  so  much  when  they 


THE    RESULT.  81 

saw  him  lying  so  weak  and  still,  with  his  eyes  shut,  and 
the  great  tears  rolling  down  his  face. 

"  It's  for  his  mother,"  Rossie  whispered  to  her  com- 
panion, and  her  own  tears  gathered  as  she  remembered 
the  sweet  woman  whose  grave  was  so  fresh  in  the  church- 
yard. 

But  it  was  not  altogether  for  the  dead  mother  that 
Everard's  tears  were  shed.  It  was  rather  from  remorse 
and  sorrow  for  the  deed  he  would  have  given  so  much 
to  undo  ;  for  he  was  conscious  of  an  intense  desire  to  be 
free  from  the  chain  which  bound  him.  Not  free  from 
Josephine,  he  tried  to  make  himself  believe,  for  if  that 
were  so  he  would  indeed  be  the  most  wretched  of  men, 
but  free  from  his  marriage  vow,  made  so  rashly.  How 
was  it  that  he  was  tempted  to  do  it  ?  he  asked  himself,  as 
he  went  over  in  his  mind  with  the  events  of  that  night. 
He  was  always  more  or  less  intoxicated  with  Josephine's 
beauty  when  he  was  with  her,  and  he  remembered  how 
she  had  bewitched  and  bewildered  him  with  the  touch  of 
her  soft  hands,  and  sight  of  her  bare  arms  and  neck. 
She  had  challenged  him  to  the  act,  and  Dr.  Matthewson 
had  given  him  the  wine,  which  he  knew  now  must  have 
clouded  his  reason  and  judgment,  and  so  he  was  left  to 
his  fate.  And  a  terrible  one  it  seemed,  as,  in  his  weak- 
ness and  languor,  he  looked  at  it  in  all  its  aspects,  and 
saw  no  brightness  in  it.  Even  Josephine's  beauty 
seemed  fading  into  nothing,  though  he  tried  so  hard  to 
keep  his  hold  on  that,  for  he  must  hold  to  something, — 
must  retain  his  love  for  Jier  or  go  mad.  But  she  was  so 
unlike  Beatrice,  so  unlike  Rosamond,  so  unlike  what  his 
mother  had  been,  and  they  were  his  standards  for  all 
that  was  noble,  and  pure,  and  sweet  in  womankind.  Josey 
was  selfish  and  unreh'ned  ;  he  could  not  put  it  in  any 
milder  form  when  he  remembered  the  past  as  connected 
with  her,  and  remembered  how  she  had  ridiculed  little 
Rossie  Hastings,  whose  letter  she  had  shown  to  Dr. 
Matthewson.  How  plainly  he  could  see  that  scene,  when 
the  doctor  rolled  upon  the'grass  and  roared  and  kicked, 
and  Josephine  laughed  with  him  at  the  generous,  unsel- 
fish child  who,  to  save  him,  had  sacrificed  her  only 
beauty.  And  Josephine  was  his  wife,  and  he  must  not 
cease  to  respect  her  one  iota,  for  that  was  his  only  chance 
for  happiness,  and  he  struggled  so  hard  to  keep  her  in  his 


82  THE    RESULT. 

heart  and  love  that  it  is  not  strange  the  great  drops  of 
sweat  stood  thickly  on  his  brow,  or  that  the  hot  tears  at 
intervals  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

It  was  Rossie  who  brushed  them  away,  Rossie  who 
wiped  the  sweat  from  his  face,  and  whispered  to  him  once  : 

"  Don't  cry,  Mr.  Everard.  Your  mother  is  so  happy 
where  she  has  gone,  and  I  don't  believe  she  has  lost  all 
care  for  you  either,  she  loved  you  so  much  when  she  was 
here." 

Then  Everard  broke  down  entirely,  and  holding  Ros- 
sie's  little,  brown,  tanned  hands  in  his,  said  to  her  : 

"  It  isn't  that,  though  Heaven  knows  how  much  I 
loved  my  mother,  and  how  sorry  I -am  she  is  dead  ;  but 
there  are  troubles  worse  than  death,  and  I  am  in  one  now, 
and  the  future  looks  so  dark  and  the  burden  so  heavy  to 
carry." 

"  Can  I  help  you  bear  it?"  Rossie  asked,  softly,  with 
a  great  pity  in  her  heart  for  this  young  man  who  had 
given  way  like  a  child. 

"  No,  Rossie,  nobody  can  help  me, — nobody,"  he  said; 
and  after  a  moment  Rossie  asked  timidly  :  "  Is  it  Joe 
Fleming  again  ?" 

"  Yes,  Rossie,  Joe  Flermng  again  ;"  and  Everard 
could  scarcely  restrain  a  smile,  even  in  his  grief,  at  this 
queer  mistake  of  Rossie's. 

In  her  mind  Joe  Fleming  was  a  dreadful  man,  through 
whole  Mr.  Everard  had  come  to  grief,  and  she  ventured 
at  last  to  speak  of  him  to  Beatrice  as  somebody  of  whom 
Everard  had  talked  when  he  was  crazy,  and  who  had  led 
him  into  a  great  trouble  of  some  kind. 

"And  that's  what  ails  him  now,  and  keeps  him  so 
weak  and  low,  and  makes  him  cry  like  a  girl,"  she  said. 

And  then  Beatrice  resolved  to  help  the  sick  youth,  if 
possible,  and  that  afternoon  when  she  sat  alone  with  him 
for  a  few  moments,  she  said  to  him  : 

"Everard,  I  am  quite  sure  that  something  is  troubling 
you,  something  which  retards  your  recovery.  I  do  not 
ask  to  know  what  it  is,  but  if  money  can  lighten  it  let 
me  help  you,  please.  I  have  so  much  more  than  I  know 
what  to  do  with.  Let  me  lend  you  some,  do." 

"  Oh,  Bee,"  Everard  cried,  "  don't  talk  to  me  that 
way  ;  you  will  kill  me,  you  and  Rossie  together  ;  and 
you  can't  help  me.  Nobody  can.  It  is  past  all  help." 


THE    RESULT.  83 

She  did  not  at  all  know  what  he  meant,  but  with  her 
knowledge  of  what  money  could  do,  ghe  felt  sure  it 
could  help, 'and  so  she  said  : 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,  I  am  sure.  You  have  probably 
been  led  astray  by  some  designing  person,  but  there  is 
always  a  backward  path,  you  know,  and  you  wTill  take  it 
sure  ;  and  if  you  should  want  money,  as  you  may,  will 
you  ask  me  for  it,  Everard  ?  "Will  you  let  me  give  it  to 
you,  as  if  I  were  your  sister?" 

He  did  not  know  ;  he  could  not  tell  what  he  might 
do  in  sore  need,  for  he  felt  intuitively  that  the  call  on 
him  for  money,  commenced  so  soon,  would  increase  with 
every  year  ;  so  he  thanked  her  for  her  kind  offer,  which, 
he  said,  he  would  consider,  should  the  time  ever  come 
when  he  wanted  help. 

For  ten  days  more  Everard  kept  his  room,  and  then 
arose  suddenly  one  morning  and  said  that  he  was  able  to 
go  back  to  college,  where  he  ought  to  have  been  two 
weeks  ago,  for  he  was  getting  far  behind  his  class,  and 
would  have  to  study  hard  to  overtake  and  keep  up  with 
it  as  he  meant  to  do.  Nothing  could  restrain  him  ;  go 
he  must,  and  go  he  did,  early  one  morning  in  September, 
before  the  people  of  Rothsay  were  astir.  He  had  held 
a  short  conference  with  Rosamond,  and  bidden  her  tell 
the  postmaster  to  forward  to  Amherst  any  letters  which 
might  come  to  him,  and  on  no  account  let  them  go  to 
the  Forrest  House.  And  Rossie  had  promised  to 
comply  with  all  his  wishes,  and  pressed  Upon  him  a 
twenty-dollar  bill,  which  she  made  him  take,  because,  as 
she  said,  she  did  not  need  it  a  bit,  and  should  just 
squander  it  for  peanuts,  and  worsteds,  and  things  which 
would  do  her  no  good.  It  was  a  part  of  her  quarterly 
interest,  and  she  could  do  what  she  liked  with  it,  and  so 
Everard  took  it,  and  felt  humiliated,  and  hated  himself, 
especially  as  he  knew  just  where  the  money  would  go. 
A  letter  from  Josephine  had  come  to  him,  asking  for 
more  funds,  with  which  to  replenish  her  wardrobe  for 
the  autumn.  They  had  no  boarders  now  except  Dr. 
Matthewson,  who  was  occasionally  in  town  for  a  day  or 
two  and  stopped  with  them,  and  Mrs.  Fleming  did  not 
get  as  much  sewing  as  usual,  and  so  Josey  was  compelled 
to  come  to  her  husband  for  money,  though  sorely  against 
her  will,  for  she  feared  she  must  seem  mercenary  to  him, 


84  HUSBAND    AND     WIFE. 

and  she  hoped  he  would  forgive  her  and  love  her  just 
the  same. 

It  was  this  letter  which  had  determined  him  to  return 
to  Amherst  without  delay.  On  his  way  thither,  he 
should  stop  in  Holburton  over  a  train,  and  tell  Josephine 
how  impossible  it  was  for  him  to  supply  her  demands 
until  in  a  position  to  help  himself. 

"If  father  would  only  give  me  something  more  than 
my  actual  needs,"  he  thought;  and,  strangely  enough,  his 
father  did. 

Possibly  the  memory  of  the  dead  mother  pleaded  for 
her  boy,  and  prompted  the  judge  to  give  his  son  at  part- 
ing a  fifty-dollar  bill  over  and  above  what  he  knew  was 
needed  for  board  and  tuition. 

"  Make  it  go  as  far  as  you  can  ;  it  ought  to  last  you 
the  whole  year,"  he  said,  and  Everard's  spirits  sank  like 
lead  as  he  foresaw  the  increasing  drain  there  would  be 
on  him,  and  felt  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  ask  his 
father  for  more. 

There  was  still  his  best  suit  of  clothes  ;  and  a  little 
diamond  pin  and  a  ring  Rossie  had  given  him,  and  his 
books,  which  he  could  sell,  and  perhaps  he  could  find 
something  to  do  after  study  hours  which  would  bring 
him  money.  He  might  write  for  the  magazines  or  illus- 
trate stories  ;  he  had  a  natural  taste  for  drawing,  and 
could  dash  off  a  sketch  from  nature  in  a  very  few  min- 
utes. He  could  do  something,  he  assured  himself,  and 
his  heart  was  a  little  lighter,  when  he  at  last  said  good- 
by  to  Rossie  and  his  father,  and  started  northward  for 
college  and  Josephine. 


CHAPTER  X. 
HUSBAND   AND   WIFE. 

E  had  sent  no  word  of  his  coming,  for  he  did 
not  know  just  when  he  should  reach  Holbur- 
ton. His  strength  might  fail  him,  and  he  be 
obliged  to  stop  for  the  night  on  the  road. 
But  he  kept  up  wonderfully,  and  arrived  at 
Holburton  on  the  same  train  which  had  taken  him  there 


HUSBAND    AND     WIFE.  85 

from  Ellicottville  on  that  memorable  day  which  he  would 
gladly  have  stricken  out.  There  was  no  one  at  the  little 
station  except  the  ticket  agent,  who,  being  new  to  the 
place,  scarcely  noticed  him  as  he  crossed  the  platform 
and  passed  down  the  street  toward  the  brown  house  on 
the  common.  There  had  been  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain 
the  previous  day,  and  the  hop  vine,  which  in  the  summer 
grew  over  the  door,  was  torn  down  and  lay  upon  the 
ground.  A  part  of.  the  fence,  too,  was  nearly  down,  and 
a  shutter  hung  by  one  hinge  and  swayed  to  and  fro  in 
the  autumn  wind.  Taken  as  a  whole,  the  house  presented 
rather  a  forlorn  appearance,  and  he  found  himself  won- 
dering how  he  had  ever  thought  it  so  attractive.  And 
still  he  felt  his  blood  stir  quickly  at  the  thought  of  meet- 
ing Josephine  again,  and  he  half  looked  to  see  her  come 
flying  out  to  meet  him  as  she  had  sometimes  done.  But 
only  the  cat,  who  was  chasing  a  grasshopper  through  the 
uncut  grass,  came  to  welcome  him  by  purring  and  rub- 
bing herself  against  his  logs  as  he  went  up  the  walk. 

Agnes  let  him  in, — the  same  sun-bonnet  on  her  head 
he  had  seen  so  many  times,  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and 
her  wide  apron  smelling  of  the  suds  she  had  come 
from. 

At  sight  of  him  she  uttered  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise, and  for  a  moment  her  tired  face  lighted  up  with 
something  like  pleasure  ;  then  that  expression  faded  and 
was  succeeded  by  an  anxious,  startled  look,  as  she  glanced 
nervously  down  the  road  as  if  expecting  some  one  to 
whom  she  would  give  warning.  Mrs.  Fleming  was  in 
Boston,  seeing  to  some  mortgage  on  the  house,  and  Josey 
had  gone  to  ride,  she  said,  as  she  led  the  way  into  the 
little  parlor,  which,  even  to  Everard's  not  very  critical 
eye,  presented  an  appearance  of  neglect  unusual  in  Mrs. 
Fleming's  household.  Evidently  it  had  not  been  cared 
for  that  day,  for  the  chairs  were  moved  from  their 
places,  two  standing  close  together,  just  where  their  last 
occupants  had  left  them.  There  were  crumbs  of  cake 
on  the  carpet,  and  two  empty  wineglasses  on  the  table, 
with  a  fly  or  two  crawling  lazily  on  the  inside  and  sip- 
ping the  few  red  drops  left  there. 

As  Agnes  opened  the  window  and  brushed  up  the 
crumbs,  she  said  she  was  intending  to  right  up  the  room 
before  Josephine  came  home,  then,  bidding  Everard 


86  HUSBAND    AND     WIFE. 

make  himself  as  comfortable  as  possible,  she  left  him 
alone,  and  went  back  to  her  work  in  the  kitchen. 

Taking  a  chair  near  the  window,  where  he  could  com- 
mand a  view  of  the  street,  the  young  man  sat  waiting 
for  Josephine,  until  he  heard  at  last  a  loud,  long  laugh, 
which  was  almost  a  shriek,  and,  looking  through  the 
shutters  of  the  open  window,  he  saw  first  a  cloud  of  dust, 
and  then  a  low  buggy  coming  rapidly  across  the  com- 
mon, in  the  direction  of  the  house.  In  the  buggy  sat 
Captain  Sparks,  the  millionaire,  whose  penchant  for 
young  and  pretty  girls  was  well  known  throughout  the 
entire  county.  Short,  fat  and  grizzly,  he  sat  with  folded 
arms,  smiling  complacently  upon  the  fair  blonde,  who,  in 
her  brown  silk  dress  of  two  shades,  with  a  long  white 
lace  scarf  twisted  round  her  hat  and  flying  far  behind, 
held  the  reins  of  the  high-mettled  horse,  and  was  driving 
furiously.  In  his  surprise  and  indignation,  Everard 
failed  to  note  how  beautiful  she  was,  with  the  flush  of 
excitement  on  her  cheeks  and  the  sparkle  in  her  eye  ;  he 
only  thought  she  was  his  wife,  and  that  Captain  Sparks 
lifted  her  very  tenderly  to  the  ground,  and  held  her  by 
the  shoulders  a  moment,  while  he  said  something  which 
made  her  turn  her  head  coquettishly  on  one  side,  as  she 
drew  back  from  him,  and  said  : 

"  You  mean  old  thing  !     You  ought  to  be  ashamed  !" 

Everard  had  heard  this  form  of  expression  many 
times.  Indeed,  it  was  her  favorite  method  of  reproof 
for  liberties  of  speech  or  manner,  and  meant  nothing  at 
all.  Everard  knew  it  did  not,  and  Captain  Sparks  knew 
it  did  not,  and  held  her  hand  the  tighter  ;  but  she  drew 
it  away  at  last,  and  ran  gayly  up  the  walk,  throwing  him 
a  kiss  from  the  tips  of  her  daintily-gloved  hand.  Then 
she  entered  the  side  door,  and  Everard  heard  her  say  to 
Agnes,  who  was  hurrying  to  meet  her  and  announce  his 
arrival  : 

"  Upon  my  word,  if  you  are  not  in  that  old  wash-dud 
yet !  I'll  bet  you  haven't  touched  the  parlor,  and  the 
captain  is  coming  at  eight  o'clock.  W/ia-a-t  ?"  and  her 
voice  fell  suddenly,  as  Agnes  said  something  to  her  in  a 
tone  too  low  for  Everard  to  hear. 

That  it  concerned  him  and  his  presence  there  he  was 
sure,  and  he  was  not  greatly  surprised  when  the  next 
instant  the  door  opened  swiftly,  and  Josephine  rushed 


HUSBAND    AND     WIFE.  87 

headlong  into  his  arms.  He  opened  them  involuntarily 
to  withstand  the  shock,  rather  than  to  receive  her  ;  but 
the  result  was  the  same, — she  laid  her  golden  head  on  his 
bosom  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  Josey  could  feign  a  cry 
admirably  when  she  chose  to  do  so,  and  now  she  trem- 
bled and  shook,  and  made  it  seem  so  real  that  Everard 
forgot  everything  except  that  she  was  very  fair  and  un- 
deniably glad  to  see  him.  Very  gently  he  soothed  her, 
and  made  her  lift  her  head,  that  he  might  look  into  her 
face,  and  hated  himself  for  thinking  that  for  such  a 
thunder-gust  as  she  had  treated  him  to  her  eyes  were  not 
very  red,  nor  her  cheeks  very  wet.  But  she  was  so  hap- 
py, and  so  glad  he  had  come,  and  so  sorry  she  was  not 
there  to  receive  him. 

"  That  old  fool,  Captain  Sparks,  had  recently  taken  to 
haunting  her  with  attentions,  and  as  the  easiest  way  to 
be  rid  of  him,  she  had  consented  for  once  to  ride  with 
him,  and  had  taken  the  occasion  to  tell  him  it  could  not 
be  repeated.  But  then  it  was  rare  fun  to  drive  his  fast 
horse, — she  was  so  fond  of  driving,  and  Blucher  was  so 
fleet  and  spirited,  and  had  brought  them  up  to  the  house 
in  such  style.  Did  Everard  see  them, — and  what  did  he 
think?"  ' 

"  Yes, -I  saw  you,  and  thought  you  were  enjoying  it 
hugely,"  Everard  said  ;  and  Josey  detected  something  in 
his  tone  which  made  her  suspect  that  he  did  not  quite 
like  the  captain's  manner  of  lifting  her  from  the  car- 
riage. But  she  was  equal  to  the  emergency,  and  made 
fun  of  the  old  man,  and  called  him  a  love-sick  muff,  and 
took  him  off  to  the  life,  and  then,  in  a  grieved,  martyred 
kind  of  way,  said,  "it  was  rather  hard  for  her  to  know 
just  what  to  do,  situated  as  she  was,  married,  and  yet  not 
married,  in  fact.  She  would  not  for  the  worjd  do  any- 
thing to  displease  Everard,  but  must  she  decline  all  at- 
tention and  make  a  nun  of  herself,  and  how  soon  could 
she  let  her  marriage  be  known  ?" 

"  Not  yet,  Josey,"  Everard  said,  explaining  to  her 
rapidly  how  much  worse  the  matter  was  for  them  now 
his  mother  was  dead. 

She  might,  and  would,  have  helped  them  when  the 
crisis  came,  but  now  there  was  no  one  to  stand  between 
him  and  his  father,  who  was  sure  to  take  some  desperate 


88  HUSBAND    AND     WIFE. 

step  if  he  knew  of  the  rash  marriage  before  his  son  was 
through  college. 

"  We  must  wait,  Josey,  two  years,  sure,"  he  said  ; 
and,  because  she  could  not  help  herself,  Josephine 
assented,  very  sweetly,  though  with  something  of  an 
injured  air,  and  managed  next  to  speak  of  money,  and 
asked  if  he  hated  her  for  being  such  a  leech. 

"  You  mustn't,  for  I  couldn't  help  it,"  she  said,  and 
she  leaned  on  his  arm,  and  buttoned  and  unbuttoned  his 
coat,  and  caressed  him  generally,  as  she  continued  : 
"  Maybe  you  didn't  know  how  poor  the  bride  was,  or 
you  would  not  have  taken  her.  Mother  is  in  Boston 
now  about  some  mortgage  on  the  house,  and  it  takes  so 
much  to  live  decently,  and  my  lessons  cost  frightfully  ; 
but  you  are  glad  to  have  me  improve,  dearest  ?" 

Of  course  he  was  glad,  he  said,  but  he  had  no  means 
of  getting  money  except  from  his  father,  and  if  she 
knew  to  what  humiliation  he  was  subjected  when  he 
asked  for  funds,  she  would  spare  him  all  she  could.  By 
and  by,  when  he  had  money  of  his  own,  there  should  be 
no  stint,  but  now  she  must  be  economical,  he  told  her  ; 
and  then  she  spoke  of  Rosamond,  and  asked  who  and 
what  that  queer  little  old-fashioned  thing  could  be. 

"  Such  a  lecture  as  she  gave  Mr.  Joe  Fleming  for 
gambling,  and  leading  you  wrong  generally.  Why,  I 
laugh  till  I  cry  every  time  I  think  of  it,"  Josey  said, 
proving  the  truth  of  what  she  asserted  by  laughing 
heartily. 

But  the  laugh  grated  on  Everard,  as  in  some  way  an 
affront  to  Rossie,  and  he  shrank  from  saying  much  of 
her,  except  to  tell  who  she  was,  and  how  she  came  to  be 
living  at  the  Forrest  House. 

"  And  was  it  her  own  money  she  sent  me,  or  where 
did  she  get  it  ?  Has  she  the  open  sesame  to  your  father's 
purse?  If  so,  you  had  better  apply  to  her,  when  in 
need,"  Josey  said  ;  and  in  a  sudden  spasm  of  fear  lest  in 
some  way  Rossie  should  become  a  victim  of  the  greed  he 
was  beginning  dimly  to  comprehend,  he  told  the  story 
of  the  hair,  but  withheld  the  name  of  Beatrice,  from  a 
feeling  that  he  would  rather  Josephine  should  not  know 
of  his  acquaintance  with  her. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  a  girl  who  could  do  so  gen- 
erous a  thing  as  that  for  a  great  lout  like  me  ?"  he  asked, 


HUSBAND    AND     WIFE.  89 

and  Josephine  replied,  "I  think  she  was  a  little  goose  ! 
Catch  me  parting  with  ray  hair  ;  though  I  am  glad  she 
did  it,  as  it  relieved  you,  and  was  of  great  benefit  to  Joe 
Fleming  !" 

She  laughed  lightly,  but  Everard  was  disgusted  and  in- 
dignant at  her  utter  want  of  appreciation  of  the  sacrifice 
which  few  girls  would  have  made.  She  saw  the  shadow 
on  his  face,  and,  suspecting  the  cause,  changed  her  tactics, 
and  became  greatly  interested  in  Rosamond,  and  said  that 
she  must  be  a  generous,  self-denying  little  thing,  and  she 
wished  Everard  would  allow  her  to  write  to  her  in  her 
own  proper  character  as  his  wife.  But  to  this  he  would 
not  consent.  He  was  not  deceived  by  this  change  in  her 
manner.  He  knew  Josey  had  expressed  her  real  senti- 
ments at  first,  and  there  was  in  his  heart  a  constantly- 
increasing  sense  of  disappointment  and  loss  of  something, 
he  scarcely  knew  what.  Nor  could  all  Josephine's  wiles 
and  witcheries  lift  the  shadows  from  his  face,  and  make 
him  feel  just  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  sat  alone  in  the 
little  parlor  with  her  at  his  side.  She  was  very  charming 
in  her  brown  silk,  which  fitted  her  admirably,  and 
Beatrice  herself  could  not  have  been  softer,  and  sweeter, 
and  gentler  than  she  tried  to  be  ;  but  there  was  something 
lacking,  and  though  Everard  put  his  arm  around  her 
slender  waist,  and  her  golden  head  was  pillowed  on  his 
shoulder,  his  heart  beat  with  heavy  throbs  of  pain  as  he 
spoke  of  her  last  letter  to  him,  in  which  she  had  asked 
for  more  money.  It  had  been  his  intention  to  give  her 
all  he  had,  and  bid  her  make  it  last  the  year,  but  he 
changed  his  mind  suddenly,  and  handed  her  only  twenty 
dollars,  and  told  her  it  was  by  mere  chance  that  he  was 
fortunate  enough  to  have  so  much  to  give  her,  and  that 
he  hoped  she  would  do  the  best  she  could  with  it  ;  for, 
though  he  would  gladly  give  her  ten  times  the  amount, 
if  he  could,  the  thing  was  impossible. 

She  thanked  him  graciously,  and  said  she  meant  to  be 
very  economical,  only  things  did  cost  so  much,  and  as 
Mrs.  Forrest,  she  felt  that  she  must  dress  better  than 
Josephine  Fleming  had  done.  If  he  said  so  she  would 
take  in  sewing,  or  even  washing,  if  he  liked, — anything 
to  show  him  she  really  meant  to  please  him.  He  vetoed 
the  washing  and  the  sewing,  of  course,  and  then,  as  he 
heard  the  rattling  of  dishes  in  the  adjoining  room,  he 


90  AFTER     TWO     TEARS. 

hastened  to  say  that  he  was  to  leave  on  the  half-past 
seven  train,  so  as  to  reach  Amherst  that  night.  There 
was  a  passionate  protest,  and  a  pretty,  pouting  declara- 
tion that  he  did  not  care  for  her  any  more,  and  then  she 
allowed  herself  to  be  comforted,  and  felt  really  relieved 
when  she  remembered  Captain  Sparks  and  his  engage- 
ment for  eight  o'clock.  There  were  waffles  for  supper, 
— Everardrs  favorites, — and  Josephine  sat  by  him  and 
buttered  them  for  him,  and  made  his  tea,  and  helped 
him  to  peaches  and  cream,  and  between  times  studied  the 
face  which  baffled  and  puzzled  her  so,  with  its  new  ex- 
pression, born  of  remorse  and  harrowing  unrest.  She 
had  married  a  boy  whom  she  thought  to  mold  so  easily, 
but  she  found  him  now  a  man,  for  whom  she  felt  a  little 
awe  and  fear,  and  there  was  something  of  real  timidity 
and  slyness  in  her  manner  when  at  last  she  said  good- 
by  to  him,  arid  watched  him  through  the  darkness  as  he 
went  rapidly  from  her  to  the  train  which  was  to  take  him 
on  his  way  to  Amherst. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
AFTER  TWO   YEAES. 

T  is  not  my  intention  to  linger  over  the  inci- 
dents of  the  next  two  years,  or  more  than 
glance  at  the  Forrest  House,  where  Rosa- 
mond Hastings  laughed,  and  played,  and 
romped,  gaining  each  day  health,  and 
strength,  and  girlish  beauty,  but  retaining  always  the 
same  straightforward,  generous,  self-denying,  truthful 
character  which  made  her  a  favorite  with  every  one. 
To  Everard  she  was  literally  a  good  angel,  and  never 
was  a  son  watched  more  carefully  by  an  anxious  mother 
than  she  watched  and  guarded  him.  She  wrote  him 
letters  of  advice  and  sage  counsel  such  as  a  grand- 
mother of  seventy  might  have  written,  and  which 
frequently  had  in  them  some  word  of  warning  against 
bad  associates  in  general,  and  Joe  Fleming  in  par- 
ticular. She  knew  he  had  not  broken  with  Joe  alto- 


AFTER     TWO     YEARS.  91 


gether,  for  he  told  her  so,  and  more  than  once  in  his  sore 
need  he  had  taken  the  money  she  never  failed  to  send 
him  when  her  quarterly  allowance  was  paid.  But  for 
the  rest,  he  was  manfully  keeping  to  the  pledge  Avhich 
she  had  drawn  for  him  to  sign.  Only  once  in  all  the  two 
years  had  he  ventured  to  ask  his  father  for  more  money 
than  that  close-dealing  man  chose  to  give  him,  and  the 
storm  of  anger  which  that  request  had  evoked  determined 
him  never  to  repeat  the  act.  He  sent  his  father's  letter  to 
Josephine,  that  she,  too,  might  understand  how  difficult 
it  was  for  him  to  supply  her  constantly  increasing  wants, 
and  for  a  time  the  effect  was  good  ;  but  an  inordinate 
fondness  for  dress  was  one  of  Josey's  weaknesses,  and 
having  once  indulged  it  to  a  certain  extent  she  could  not 
readily  deny  herself,  especially  as  she  felt  she  had  aright 
to  a  part,  at  least,  of  the  Forrest  money.  So  she  wrote  to 
Everard  again  and  again,  sometimes  for  five  dollars,  some- 
times for  ten,  or  twenty,  and  when  she  found  that  sooner 
or  later  it  came  she  ventured  to  ask  for  more,  and  at  last 
demanded  fifty  dollars,  which  she  needed  for  furs,  as  her 
old  ones  were  worn  out.  Then  Everard  sold  the  little 
diamond  pin  his  mother  had  given  him,  and  parted  with 
it  almost  without  a  pang,  he  was  getting  so  accustomed 
to  these  things.  He  had  long  before  parted  with  his 
best  suit  of  clothes,  and  from  the  most  exquisitely  dressed 
young  man  in  college  he  was  fast  becoming  the  plainest, 
and  was  getting  the  reputation  of  penuriousness  in  every- 
thing. His  first-class  boarding-house  was  exchanged  for 
a  third-rate  club,  where  the  poorest  young  men  lived  ; 
he  wrote  articles  for  the  magazines  and  sold  them  for 
whatever  he  could  get,  and  once,  when  the  janitor  was 
sick  for  a  week,  he  took  his  place,  and  earned  a  few  dol- 
lars with  which  to  swell  the  amount  he  found  it  neces- 
sary to  keep  on  hand  for  the  woman  who  sported  a 
handsomer  wardrobe  than  the  greatest  lady  in  Holbur- 
ton. 

Of  course  the  world  must  have  some  explanation  for 
this,  or  the  girl's  reputation  be  ruined  forever.  And 
Josey  made  the  explanation,  and  said  a  distant  relative 
of  her  father's  had  died  in  Ireland,  and  left  her  a  few 
pounds  to  do  with  as  she  liked.  And  in  this  story  there 
wras  a  semblanca  of  truth,  for  a  maiden  aunt,  who  for 
years  had  lived  in  Portrush,  on  the  northern  coast  of 


92  AFTER     TWO     YEARS. 

Ireland,  and  taken  lodgers  during  the  summer  season, 
did  die  and  leave  to  her  grand-nieces  in  America  the  sum 
of  fifty  pounds,  which  was  ostensibly  divided  between 
Agnes  and  Josephine,  though  the  latter  had  the  greater 
share,  and  immediately  appeared  on  the  street  in  an  ex- 
pensive velvet  sack,  which  attracted  much  attention  and 
elicited  a  great  many  remarks  from  those  who  were 
watching  the  career  of  the  young  girl.  She  was  not 
popular,  for  with  her  fine  dress  she  had  also  put  on  all 
sorts  of  airs,  and  her  manner  was  haughty  and  offensive 
in  the  extreme,  while  her  flirtations  with  gentlemen  were 
so  marked  as  to  make  her  notorious  as  a  heartless  and 
unprincipled  coquette.  Captain  Sparks  had  laid  himself 
and  his  immense  fortune  at  her  feet,  only,  of  course,  to. 
be  refused  ;  but  she  had  told  him  no  so  sweetly,  with 
tears  in  her  liquid  blue  eyes,  that  he  was  not  more  than 
half  convinced  that  she  meant  it,  and  dangled  still  in  her 
train  of  hangers-on.  Dr.  Matthewson,  too,  was  there 
frequently,  and  people  had  good  reasons  for  thinking 
him  the  favored  one,  judging  from  the  familiar  relations 
in  which  they  seemed  to  stand  to  each  other.  Once  in  a 
great  while  Everard  himself  went  over  to  Holburton,  but 
he  never  stopped  more  than  a  few  hours  at  the  most,  and 
was  seldom  seen  in  the  street  with  Josephine,  who  was 
supposed  to  have  lost  her  hold  on  him, — and  so  in  fact 
she  had  ;  all  his  fancied  love  for  her  was  dead,  and  her 
beauty  never  moved  him  now,  or  made  his  pulses  quick- 
en one  whit  faster  than  their  wont.  She  was  his  wife, 
and  he  accepted  the  fact,  and  resolved  to  make  the  best 
of  it,  but  the  future  held  nothing  bright  in  store  for  him. 
On  the  contrary,  he  shrank  from  it  with  a  kind  of  nerv- 
ous terror,  and  felt  no  throb  of  joy  when  his  college 
days  drew  near  their  close,  and  he  knew  that  he  stood 
first  in  his  class,  and  should  graduate  with  every  possible 
honor.  He  had  worked  hard  for  that,  but  it  was  more  to 
please  Beatrice  and  Rosamond  than  for  any  good  to 
himself  that  he  had  studied  early  and  late,  and  made 
himself  what  he  was.  They  were  coming  on  from  Roth- 
say  with  his  father,  to  see  him  graduated,  and  hear  his  vale- 
dictory, for  that  honor  was  awarded  him,  and  he  had  en- 
gaged rooms  for  them  at  a  private  house  where  he  knew 
they  would  be  more  comfortable  than  at  the  hotel.  Rossie 
was  all  eagerness  and  excitement,  and  wrote  frequently 


AFTER     TWO     YEARS.  93 

to  Everard,  telling  him  once  that  if  Joe  Fleming  was 
there  not  to  let  him  know  who  she  was,  but  to  be  sure 
to  point  him  out  to  her,  as  she  had  a  great  desire  to  see  a 
real  gambler  and  blackleg.  She  had  recently  applied  this 
last  term  to  Joe  Fleming,  and  Everard  smiled  when  he  read 
the  letter,  but  felt  a  great  pang  of  fear  lest  Josephine 
should  thrust  herself  upon  the  notice  of  his  father  and 
Beatrice.  He  had  given  her  no  hint  that  her  presence 
would  be  agreeable  to  him,  but  he  knew  she  did  not 
need  it,  and  was  not  at  all  disappointed  when  lie  received 
a  note  from  her  saying  that  she  was  coming  down  to  see 
him  graduate,  but  should  not  trouble  him  more  than  she 
could  help,  as  a  friend  who  lived  about  a  mile  from 
town  had  asked  her  to*  spend  a  few  days  with  her,  and 
be  present  at  the  exercises.  She  should,  of  course, 
expect  him  to  call  and  pay  her  any  little  attention  which 
he  consistently  could. 

It  was  long  since  Josephine  had  attempted  anything 
like  love-making  with  Everard,  for  she  felt  that  he 
understood  her  perfectly  now,  and  had  no  respect  what- 
ever for  her.  He  had  found  her  a  sham,  just  as  Rossie 
had  said  she  was,  and  had  accepted  his  fate  with  a  bit- 
terness and  remorse  such  as  few  men  of  his  age  had  ever 
experienced.  He  did  not  believe  in  her  at  all,  and  when- 
ever he  was  with  her,  and  met  the  soft,  pleading  glance 
of  the  eyes  which  had  once  so  fascinated  and  bewitched 
him,  he  only  felt  indignant  and  disgusted,  for  he  knew 
how  false  it  all  was,  and  that  the  eyes  which  looked  so 
beseechingly  up  to  him  would  the  next  hour  rest  as  lov- 
ingly upon  Dr.  Matthewson,  or  Captain  Sparks,  or  any 
other  man  whom  she  deemed  worthy  of  her  notice. 
Once,  when  he  was  in  Holburton,  he  accidentally  discov- 
ered that  the  washing  and  ironing,  with  which  Agnes 
seemed  always  busy,  were  done  to  pay  the  music  bills  and 
sundry  other  expenses,  for  which  he  had  sent  the  money, 
and  in  his  surprise  he  asked  a  few  leading  questions  and 
learned  more  than  he  had  dreamed  of.  As  the  worm 
will  turn  when  trodden  upon,  so  Agnes,  who  chanced  to 
be  smarting  under  some  fresh  indignity  imposed  upon 
her,  turned  upon  her  tyrant  and  told  many  things  which, 
for  Everard's  peace  of  mind,  would  have  been  better 
unsaid,  for  she  dwelt  mostly  upon  Josey's  free-and-easy 


94  AFTER     TWO     YEARS. 

manner  with  the  gentlemen  who  came  to  the  house  to 
call,  or  chanced  to  be  boarding  there. 

"I  don't  mean  she  does  anything  bad,"  she  said, 
"anything  you  could  sue  for  if  you  wanted  to,  but  she 
just  makes  eyes  at  them,  and  leads  them  on, -iiud  gets 
them  all  dangling  on  her  string,  and  wants  to  be  their 
sister,  and  all  that  sort  of  stuff,  and  when  the  fools  offer 
themselves,  as  some  of  them  do,  she  rises  up  on  her  tip- 
toes and  wonders  how  they  could  presume  to  do  such  a 
thing,  as  she  had  never  meant  to  encourage  them, — she 
was  simply  their  friend  ;  and,  if  you'll  believe  it,  they 
mostly  stick  to  her  just  the  same,  and  the  sister  business 
goes  on,  and  she  a  married  woman  !  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
Mr.  Forrest  !" 

And  oh,  how  sorry  he  was  for  himself,  and  how  after 
this  revelation  he  shrank  from  the  gay  butterfly  which 
flitted  around  him  so  gracefully,  and  treated  him  to  the 
eyes  of  which  Agnes  had  spoken  so  significantly.  And 
still  there  was  no  open  rupture  between  the  two,  no 
words  of  recrimination  or  reproach  on  either  side.  He 
was  always  courteous  and  polite,  though  cold  as  the 
polar  sea  ;  while  she  was  sweetness  itself,  and  only  the 
expression  of  her  face  told  occasionally  that  she  fully 
realized  the  situation,  and  knew  just  how  she  stood  with 
him.  But  he  was  her  husband,  and  as  such  would  one 
day  be  known  to  the  world,  and  she  was  far  prouder  of 
him  now  in  his  character  as  a  man  than  she  had  been 
when  she  took  him,  a  boy  ;  and  she  meant  to  see  him  on 
the  stage  in  Amherst,  and  compel  him  to  pay  her  some 
attention  which  should  mark  her  as  an  object  of  prefer- 
ence. She  knew  he  did  not  wish  to  have  her  there,  but 
she  did  not  care  for  that,  and  wrote  to  him  her  intention 
to  be  present  at  the  Commencement,  and  her  wish  that 
he  should  pay  her  some  attention. 

The  old,  weary,  hopeless  look,  which  had  become 
habitual  to  his  face,  deepened  in  intensity  as  Everard 
read  the  note,  and  then  began  to  calculate  the  chances 
of  a  meeting  between  his  friends  and  Josey.  He  was 
very  morbid  about  this  secret,  which  he  had  kept  so  long 
that  it  seemed  to  him  now  that  he  never  could  divulge 
it,  even  if  sure  that  his  father's  bitter  anger  would  not 
follow.  And  he  did  not  wish  Beatrice  and  Rossie  to  see 
his  wife,  if  he  could  help  it,  and  perhaps  he  could.  There 


COMMENCEMENT.  95 

would  be  a  great  crowd  in  the  church;  they  could  not 
see  her  there  ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Everts  lived  more  than  a 
mile  from  town,  they  might  not  meet  her  at  all,  unless  at 
the  reception  given  by  the  president,  and  to  this  Josey 
would  hardly  be  invited.  So  he  breathed  a  little  more 
freely,  and  completed  his  arrangements  for  his  family, 
and  wrote  a  line  to  Josey,  saying  he  would  call  upon  her 
at  Mrs.  Everts'  when  she  came,  but  should  be  so  very 
busy  that  he  could  not  be  with  her  a  great  deal. 

To  Rosamond  he  wrote  quite  differently,  and  told  her 
how  glad  he  was  that  she  was  coming,  and  how  much  he 
hoped  she  would  enjoy  the  trip,  and  that  there  was  the 
coziest,  prettiest  room  imaginable  waiting  for  her  in  one 
of  the  pleasantest  houses  in  town.  And  Rossie  was 
crazy  with  delight  and  anticipation,  and  scarcely  slept  a 
wink  the  night  before  they  started.  And  still  she  was 
very  bright,  and  fresh,  and  pretty,  in  her  suit  of  Holland 
linen,  and  never  was  journey  more  enjoyed  than  she  en- 
joyed hers,  seeing  everything,  and  appreciating  every- 
thing, and  declaring  that  she  was  not  a  whit  tired  when 
at  last  they  reached  Amherst,  and  found  Everard  waiting 
for  them. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
COMMENCEMENT. 

T  was  nearly  a  year  since  they  had  seen  Ever- 
ard, and  Bee  and  Rossie  were  struck  at  once 
with  the  great  change  in  his  personal  appear- 
ance, while  even  the  jucjge  noticed  how  thin 
and  pale  he  was,  but  attributed  it  naturally 
to  hard  study.  Fresh  air  and  exercise  at  home  would 
soon  make  that  all  right,  he  thought,  and  so  dismissed  it 
from  his  mind.  But  Beatrice  and  Rosamond  both  saw 
more  than  the  thin  face,  which  had  grown  so  pale  and 
troubled.  They  saw  that  Everard 's  hat  was  the  same 
worn  the  year  before  when  he  was  at  home  ;  saw  that 
his  pants  were  shining  about  the  knees,  and  his  coat 
shining  and  worn  about  the  sleeves,  while  his  boots  were 
carefully  patched.  Once  he  had  been  the  best  and  most 


96  COMMENCEMENT. 

fashionably-dressed  young  man  in  college,  but  he  was 
far  from  that  now,  though  he  was  scrupulously  neat  and 
clean,  and  looked  every  whit  a  gentleman  as  he  walked 
with  the  young  ladies  down  the  shaded  street,  and  tried 
to  seem  natural,  and  answer  gayly  to  Beatrice's  light 
badinage  and  Rossie's  quaint  remarks.  But  it  was  up- 
hill business,  for  how  could  he  be  happy  when  he  knew 
that  Josey  would  soon  be  watching  for  him,  and  expect- 
ing him  to  pass  a  part  of  the  evening,  at  least,  with  her? 
What  if  she  should  take  it  into  her  head  to  come  to  town 
and  hunt  him  up,  arid  find  him  there  with  his  friends  ? 
What  could  he  say  or  do,  and  what  would  they  think  of 
her?  It  made  him  faint  and  sick  just  to  imagine  Bea- 
trice weighing  Josephine  as  she  would  weigh  her,  and 
discovering  more  than  the  enormity  of  cotton  lace  and 
dollar  jewelry,  while  Rossie, — he  could  not  define  to  him- 
self why  he  shrank  so  nervously  from  having  her  clear, 
honest  eyes  scan  Josephine  Fleming,  as  he  knew  they 
would  do. 

After  tea  was  over,  Everard  took  his  father  through 
the  town  and  introduced  him  to  some  of  the  professors, 
and  then,  as  the  twilight  began  to  fall,  asked  to  be  ex- 
cused a  short  time,  as  he  had  an  engagement  to  call  upon 
a  friend  ;  so  his  father  returned  alone  to  his  lodgings, 
and  Everard  started  on  a  rapid  walk  toward  Mrs.  Everts'. 
He  did  not  know  the  lady  personally,  but  he  knew  where 
she  lived,  and  was  soon. at  her  gate,  where  he  paused  a 
moment  in  some  surprise  at  the  sounds  of  talking  and 
laughter  which  greeted  his  ears.  The  parlor  was  lighted 
up,  and  through  the  open  windows  lie  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Josephine,  fair  and  lovely,  in  pure  white,  with  only  a 
bit  of  honeysuckle  at  her  throat  and  in  her  hair,  which 
fell  like  a  golden  shower  upon  her  neck,  and  gave  her  a 
very  youthful  appearance.  Gathered  around  her  were 
four  young  men,  juniors  and  sophomores,  each  striving 
for  the  preference,  and  each  saying  some  soft  thing  to 
her,  at  which  she  laughed  so  prettily  and  coquettishly 
that  their  zeal  and  admiration  were  increased  tenfold. 

"  How  did  these  puppies  know  her?"  Everard  asked 
himself,  as  he  leaned  against  the  gate  ;  then  he  remem- 
bered having  heard  that  one  of  them  had  spent  a  little 
time  in  Ilolburton,  and  probably  he  was  in  the  habit  of 


COMMENCEMENT.  97 

going  there  occasionally,  and  bad  taken  the  others  with 
him. 

At  all  events  she  seemed  to  know  them  well,  and 
they  were  in  the  full  tide  of  flattery  and  mirth  when 
his  ring  broke  the  spell,  and  he  was  ushered  into  the  par- 
lor. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  !"  Josey  exclaimed,  com- 
ing gracefully  forward,  and  giving  him  both  her  hands, 
an  act  which  was  noted  by  the  juniors  and  sophomores, 
and  mentally  resented. 

What  business  had  that  grave,  dignified  Forrest 
there,  and  why  should  Miss  Fleming  greet  him  so  cor- 
dially, and  where  did  she  know  him  anyway  ?  They 
had  heard  he  was  very  wealthy,  and  that  he  once  was 
very  fast  and  wild,  but  something  had  changed  him. 
entirely,  and  transformed  him  into  a  sober,  reticent,  and, 
as  they  believed,  very  proud  and  stingy  young  man, 
whose  perfectly  correct  behavior  was  a  living  rebuke  to 
themselves.  He  was  not  popular  with  their  set,  and 
they  showed  it  in  their  faces,  and  pulled  at  their  cravats, 
and  fingered  the  bouquets  in  their  button-holes,  and 
stood  round  awkwardly,  while  he  talked  with  Josey,  and 
asked  her  of  her  journey,  and  her  mother  and  Agnes, 
and  answered  her  questions  about  the  exercises  the  next 
day,  and  the  best  place  for  her  to  sit. 

"Oh,  we  will  arrange  that  ;  we  will  see  that  you 
have  a  good  seat,"  the  juniors  and  sophomores  echoed  in 
chorus  ;  and  with  a  slight  sneer,  perceptible  to  Josey,  on 
his  face,  Everard  said  to  her  :  "  I  do  not  see  that  there  is 
any  chance  for  me  to  offer  you  any  attention,  you  seeni 
so  well  provided  for." 

Josey  bit  her  lip  with  vexation,  for  though  she  was 
delighted  to  have  so  many  admirers  at  her  side,  she  would 
far  rather  have  been  cared  for  particularly  by  this 
husband,  of  whom  she  was  beginning  to  be  a  good  deal 
afraid.  He  was  so  greatly  changed  that  she  could  not 
understand  him  at  all,  or  guess  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind,  and  when  at  last  he  rose  to  go  she  said  to  him 
almost  beseechingly  : 

"  I  hope  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow." 

"  Possibly,  though  I  shall  be  very  busy,"  was  his 
reply  ;  and  just  then  one  of  the  juniors  said  to  him  : 

"By   the  way,    Forrest,    who    is   that   fine-looking, 


98  COMMENCEMENT. 

elderly  gentleman  I  saw  with  you  this  evening  ?  Your 
father  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  father,"  Everard  replied,  feeling  a  desire 
to  throttle  the  young  man,  and  glancing  involuntarily 
at  Josephine,  over  whom  a  curious  change  had  come. 

The  was  a  blood-red  spot  on  her  cheeks,  and  an 
unnatural  glitter  in  her  eyes,  as  she  said  to  the  quartette 
around  her  : 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment.  I  have  just  thought  of  some- 
thing which  I  particularly  wish  to  say  to  Mr.  Forrest." 

The  next  moment  she  stood  in  the  hall  with  him, 
and  was  saying  to  him  rapidly  and  excitedly  :  "Your 
father  is  here,  and  you  did  not  tell  me.  I  don't  like 
it.  I  wish  to  see  him, — wish  him  to  see  me,  and  you 
must  introduce  me  at  the  reception.  I  intend  to  be 
there." 

"  Very  well,"  was  all  Everard  said,  but  he  felt  as  if 
a  band  of  iron  was  drawn  around  his  heart  as  he  went 
back  to  Beatrice  and  Rossie,  who  were  waiting  for  him, 
and  who  noticed  at  once  the  worried  look  upon  his  face, 
and  wondered  a  little  at  it. 

Had  anything  happened  to  disquiet  him,  that  he 
should  seem  so  absent  minded  and  disturbed  ?  Rossie 
was  the  first  to  reach  a  solution  of  the  mystery,  and  when 
at  his  request  Beatrice  seated  herself  at  the  piano  and 
began  to  play,  she  stole  up  to  him,  and  whimpered  very 
low,  "  Have  you  seen  Joe  Fleming  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  his  reply,  and  Rossie's  wise  little  nod 
said  plainly,  "  I  guessed  as  much." 

In  her  mind  every  trouble  or  perplexity  which  came 
to  Everard  had  something  to  do  with  the  mysterious  Joe 
Fleming,  though  in  what  way  she  could  not  guess.  She 
only  knew  that  it  was  so,  and  she  felt  an  increased 
desire  to  see  this  bete  noir  of  Mr.  Everard's. 

"  And  perhaps  I  shall  have  a  chance  to-morrow  night 
at  the  reception.  It  will  be  just  like  his  impudence  to 
be  there,"  she  thought,  when  at  last  she  laid  her  tired 
head  upon  her  pillow. 

Rossie  was  very  pale  and  haggard  when  she  came 
down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  the  headache,  and  knew  that  one  was  coming 
on,  but  she  fought  the  pain  back  bravely,  for  she  could 
not  miss  the  valedictory. 


COMMENCEMENT.  C9 

It  was  comparatively  early  when  she  and  Beatrice 
entered  the  church,  which,  even  at  that  hour,  was  densely 
packed.  But  good  seats  were  found  for  them,  and 
Rossie  sat  all  through  the  exercises  and  listened  breath- 
lessly to  Mr.  Everard's  oration,  and  threw  him  a  bou- 
quet, and  wondered  who  the  beautiful  lady  was  who 
stood  up  on  tiptoe  to  cheer  him,  and  who  seemed  so 
desirous  that  her  bouquet  of  pansies  and  rose  geraniums 
should  reach  him  in  safety.  Beatrice  did  not  see  the 
lady,  but  she  saw  the  bouquet  of  pansies  which  fell  at 
Everard's  feet,  where  he  seemed  disposed  to  let  it  lie, 
until  a  boy  picked  it  up  and  handed  it  to  him.  It  was 
very  pretty,  and  the  pansies  showed  well  against  the 
background  of  green,  but  Beatrice  little  guessed  how 
faint  and  sick  the  young  man  felt  as  he  held  them  with 
the  flowers  Rossie  had  thrown.  These  he  had  picked  up 
himself,  and  smiled  pleasantly  upon  the  young  girl,  whose 
pride  and  satisfaction  shone  in  her  brilliant  eyes,  and 
whose  face  was  almost  as  white  as  the  dress  she  wore. 
For  Rossie  was  growing  sick  very  fast,  and  when  the 
exercises  were  over  she  could  not  even  wait  to  speak  to 
Everard,  but  hurried  with  Beatrice  to  her  room,  where 
she  went  directly  to  bed. 

The  reception  was  given  up,  but  Rossie  saw  Everard 
a  moment  and  told  him  how  proud  she  was  of  him,  and 
how  fine  she  thought  his  valedictory. 

Everard's  spirits  were  much  lighter  now  than  they 
had  been  in  the  morning,  but  when  he  remembered  what 
had  lightened  them,  he  felt  himself  a  very  brute  and 
monster,  for  it  was  nothing  less  than  the  sight  of  Rossie's 
pale,  sick  face,  and  the  knowing  that  she  would  not  attend 
the  reception,  or  Beatrice  either,  for  the  latter  insisted 
upon  staying  with  the  little  girl,  and  said  she  was  only 
too  glad  to  do  so,  for  she  did  not  care  for  the  people  she 
should  meet,  and  would  much  rather  remain  at  home 
with  Rossie. 


100  THE     RECEPTION. 

CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    BECEPTION. 


T  was  a  rather  stupid  affair,  with  a  great  many 
more  gentlemen  than  ladies.  Indeed,  there 
were  but  very  few  of  the  latter  present,  and 
these  mostly  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the 
professors,  with  any  guests  who  chanced  to 
be  visiting  them,  so  that  when  Josephine  entered  the 
room  in  her  flowing  robes  of  white,  with  her  beautiful 
hair  falling  down  her  back,  she  created  a  great  sensation. 
How  she  obtained  an  invitation  to  the  reception  it  would 
be  difficult  to  tell,  but  obtained  it  she  had,  and  had 
spent  hours  over  her  dress,  which  was  a  master-piece  of 
grace  and  girlish  simplicity.  It  was  white  tarletan,  which 
fitted  her  perfectly,  and  left  bare  just  enough  of  her 
neck  and  arms  to  be  becoming.  Clusters  of  pansies  looped 
up  the  overdress,  and  formed  her  shoulder-knots,  while 
a  bunch  of  the  same  flowers,  mingled  with  sweet  mig- 
nonette, was  fastened  at  her  throat,  and  around  her 
neck  was  a  delicate  chain  of  gold  from  which  was  sus- 
pended a  turquoise  locket,  set  with  a  few  small  pearls. 
Everything  about  her,  though  not  costly,  was  in  perfect 
taste,  and  she  looked  so  charming,  so  fresh  and  lovely, 
when  she  entered  the  hot  parlor,  accompanied  by  one  of 
the  seniors,  who  was  her  escort,  that  the  guests  held 
their  breath  for  a  moment  to  look  at  her;  then  the  gen- 
tlemen who  knew  her, — and  there  were  a  dozen  or  more 
of  them, — pressed  eagerly  forward,  each  ambitious  to 
pay  her  some  attention. 

Everard  was  standing  by  his  father  and  the  president 
when  she  came  in,  and  at  sight  of  her,  smiling  sweetly 
and  bearing  herself  so  royally,  he  felt  for  an  instant  a 
thrill  of  something  like  pride  in  her.  But  when  he  re- 
membered that  this  beauty,  and  grace,  and  sweetness 
was  all  there  was  of  the  woman;  that  her  manner  was 
studied,  even  to  the  smile  on  her  lips  and  the  expression 
of  her  eyes,  he  turned  from  her  with  a  feeling  of  dis- 
gust, but  glanced  nervously  at  his  father  to  see  what 
effect  she  would  have  upon  him.  Judge  Forrest  saw 


TUB     RECEPTION.  101 

her,  and  stopped  a  moment  in  the  midst  of  something  he 
was  saying  to  the  president  to  look  at  her;  then,  moved 
by  one  of  those  unaccountable  prejudices  which  one 
sometimes  takes  against  a  stranger  without  knowing 
why,  he  turned  his  back  and  resumed  his  interrupted 
conversation,  and  so  he  did  not  see  young  Allen,  her  at- 
tendant, when  he  presented  her  to  Everard  as  one  whom 
she  had  never  met. 

There  was  a  comical  gleam  in  Josey'seyes,  and  Ever- 
ard's  face  was  scarlet  as  he  said, 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Miss  Fleming,  I  be- 
lieve." 

Seeing  an  opening  in  the  crowd,  Allen  tried  to  pass 
on;  but  Josey  had  no  intention  of  leaving  that  locality, 
and,  as  soon  as  she  could,  she  disengaged  herself  from 
him,  and  standing  close  to  Everard,  said,  in  a  low  tone  : 

"  Present  me  to  your  father." 

He  had  no  alternative  but  to  obey,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Josey's  great  blue  eyes  were  looking  up  coyly 
and  deferentially  at  the  stern  old  judge,  and,  a  few  mo- 
ments later,  her  arm  was  linked  in  his,  and  he  was  lead- 
ing her  toward  an  open  window,  where  it  was  cooler, 
and  the  crowd  was  not  so  great.  She  had  complained 
that  it  was  warm  and  close,  and  asked  the  judge  if  he 
would  mind  taking  her  near  the  conservatory,  where  it 
must  be  more  comfortable. 

And  so  the  judge  gave  her  his  arm  and  piloted  her  to 
the  window,  where  she  got  between  him  and  the  people 
and  compelled  him  to  stand  and  listen,  while  she  talked 
in  her  most  flattering  strain,  telling  him  how  glad  she 
MTas  to  meet  him,  she  had  heard  so  much  of  him  from  his 
son,  who  sometimes  visited  at  her  mother's,  and  how 
much  he  was  like  what  she  had  fancied  him  to  be  from 
Everard's  description,  only  so  much  more  youthful 
looking. 

If  there  was  anything  the  judge  detested  it  was  for 
an  old  man  to  look  younger  than  his  years.  It  was  in 
some  sense  a  living  lie,  he  thought,  and  he  abominated 
anything  like  deception.  So  when  Josephine  spoke  of 
his  youthful  appearance,  he  answered  gruffly,  "I  am 
sixty,  and  look  every  day  of  it.  If  I  thought  I  didn't, 
I'd  proclaim  it  aloud,  for  I  hate  deception  of  every 
kind." 


102  THE     RECEPTION. 

"  Yes,  I  should  know  you  did,  and  there  we  agree 
perfectly,"  Josephine  replied,  and  she  leaned  a  little 
more  heavily  upon  his  arm  and  made  what  Agnes  called 
her  eyes  at  him,  and  asked  him  to  hold  her  fan  while  she 
buttoned  her  glove,  and  asked  him  about  Charleston  as 
it  was  before  the  war,  and  wished  that  she  could  have 
seen  it  in  its  glory. 

"  Do  you  know,"  and  she  spoke  very  low  and  looked 
straight  up  into  his  face,  "it  is  very  naughty  in  me,  I 
admit,  but  at  heart  I  believe  I'm  a  bit  of  a  rebel,  and 
though,  of  course,  I  was  very  young  when  the  war  broke 
out,  and  didn't  quite  know  what  it  was  about,  I  secretly 
sympathized  with  you  Southerners,  and  held  a  little  ju- 
bilee by  myself  when  I  heard  of  a  Southern  victory.  Do 
you  think  me  a  traitor?"  and  she  smiled  sweetly  into  the 
face  which  never  relaxed  a  muscle,  but  was  cold  and 
frigid  as  ice. 

Judge  Forrest  was,  to  his  heart's  core,  a  Southerner, 
and  had  sympathized  with  his  people  during  the  rebellion, 
because  they  were  his  people ;  but  had  he  been  born 
North  he  would  have  been  just  as  strong  a  Federal  as  he 
was  a  Confederate,  so,  instead  of  thinking  more  highly 
of  Miss  Josey  for  her  rebel  sentiments,  he  thought  the 
less  of  her,  and  answered  rebukingly,  "  Young  woman,  I 
do  not  quite  believe  you  know  all  the  word  traitor  im- 
plies ;  if  you  did,  you  wouldn't  voluntarily  apply  it  to 
yourself." 

"  No,  perhaps  not.  I'm  a  foolish,  silly  girl,  I  know," 
Josey  answered  him  humbly,  while  great  tears  swam  in 
her  blue  eyes,  but  produced  no  effect  upon  the  judge. 

Indeed,  he  scarcely  saw  them,  he  was  so  intent  upon 
ridding  himself  of  this  piece  of  affectation  and  vul- 
garity, as  he  mentally  pronounced  her,  and  it  was  all  in 
vain  that  she  practiced  upon  him  the  little  coquetries 
which  she  was  wont  to  play  off  on  other  men  with  more 
or  less  success.  He  did  not  care  for  her  innocence,  nor 
her  pretty  pretense  of  ignorance  of  the  world,  nor  tim- 
idity nor  shyness,  nor  love  of  books  and  poetry,  nor  ad- 
miration of  himself,  for  she  tried  all  these,  one  after 
another,  and  felt  herself  growing  angry  with  this  man 
who  stood  so  unmoved  before  her  and  seemed  only  anxious 
to  get  away.  She  had  made  no  impression  on  him  what- 
ever, at  least  no  good  impression,  and  she  knew  it,  and 


THE     RECEPTION.  103 

resolved  upon  one  final  effort.  He  might  be  reached 
through  his  son,  and  so  she  mentioned  Everard,  and  com- 
plimented his  oration,  and  told  how  high  he  stood  in  the 
estimation  of  the  professors,  and  what  an  exemplary 
young  man  he  was,  and  ended  by  saying,  "  You  must  be 
very  proud  of  him,  are  you  not?" 

Here  was  a  direct  question,  but  the  judge  did  not 
answer  it.  There  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon  him  a  sus- 
picion that  this  girl,  whose  flippant  manner  he  so  much 
disliked,  was  more  interested  in  his  son  than  in  himself, 
and  if  so,  possibly,  his  son  was  interested  in  her.  At  all 
events  he  meant  "to  know  the  extent  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, and  instead  of  answering  her  question,  he  asked  : 
"  Have  you  known  my  son  long  ?" 
Josey  thought  the  truth  would  answer  better  than 
equivocation,  and  she  told  him  that  Everard  had  boarded 
with  her  mother  a  few  weeks  three  years  ago. 

"  You  remember,"  she  said,  "  he  spent  his  long  vaca- 
tion East,  and  a  part  of  it  in  Holburton,  where  we  live. 
Perhaps  you  may  have  heard  him  speak  of  my  mother. 
She  knew  your  wife  well,  and  was  at  your  wedding, 
though  you  would  not  remember  her,  of  course,  among 
so  many  strangers." 

The  judge  did  not  remember  her,  nor  could  he  recall 
the  name  as  one  which  he  had  ever  heard,  but  he  did  not 
think  of  doubting  Josey's  word,  and  never  suspected 
that,  though  her  mother  had  been  present  at  his  bridal, 
it  was  as  a  former  servant  in  the  Bigelow  family  ;  he 
only  knew  that  if  she  had  been  the  most  intimate  friend 
of  his  wife,  he  did  not  like  her  daughter,  and  he  greeted 
with  rapture  the  young  man  who  at  last  appeared  and 
took  her  off  his  hands.  Her  attempt  at  familiarity  with 
him  had  failed,  and  she  felt  intensely  chagrined,  and  mor- 
tified, and  disappointed,  for  she  began  to  understand  how 
difficult  it  would  be  for  Everard  to  confess  his  marriage, 
and  to  fear  the  consequences  if  he  did.  A  tolerably  skill- 
ful reader  of  human  nature,  she  saw  what  kind  of  man 
Judge  Forrest  was,  and  felt  that  Everard  had  not  misrepre- 
sented him.  She  saw,  too,  that  he  had  conceived  a  dislike 
to  herself,  and  for  the  first  time  began  to  dread  the  result 
should  he  know  that  she  was  his  daughter-in-law.  Dis- 
inheritance of  Everard  might  follow,  and  then  farewell 
to  her  dream  of  wealth,  and  luxury,  and  position.  It  is 


104  THE     RECEPTION. 

true  the  latter  would  be  hers  to  a  certain  extent,  for  the 
wife  of  Everard  Forrest  would  always  take  precedence 
of  Josephine  Fleming,  but  Josey  liked  what  money  would 
bring  her  better  than  position,  and  perhaps  it  would  be 
well  to  keep  quiet  a  while  longer,  provided  her  rapidly 
increasing  wants  were  supplied.  In  this  conclusion  she 
was  greatly  strengthened  when,  the  morning  following 
the  reception,  Everard  came  for  a  few  moments  to  see 
her  and  escort  her  to  the  train,  for  she  was  to  leave  that 
morning  for  home. 

Between  Everard  and  his  father  there  had  been  a 
little  conversation  concerning  Miss  Josey,  and  not  very 
complimentary  to  her  either. 

"  Who  was  that  bold,  brazen-faced  girl  you  introduced 
to  me?"  the  judge  had  asked,  and  Everard  replied  : 

"Do  you  mean  that  blonde  in  white  ?  That  is  Miss 
Fleming  from  Holburton.  She  is  called  very  beautiful." 

"  Umph  !  looks  well  enough,  for  that  matter,  but  I  do 
not  like  her.  She  is  quite  too  forward,  and  familiar, 
and  affected.  There's  nothing  real  about  her,  but  her 
brass  and  vulgarity.  And  you  boarded  there,  it  seems, 
and  knew  her  well?"  the  judge  said,  testily,  and  Everard 
stammered  out  that  he  did  board  with  Mrs.  Fleming, 
and  had  found  Josephine  a  very  agreeable  young  lady. 

He  must  say  so  much  in  defense  of  the  girl  who  was 
his  wife,  but  it  seemed  to  vex  his  father,  who  began  to 
lose  his  temper,  and  said  he  should  think  very  little  of  a 
young  man  who  could  find  anything  agreeable  in  that 
girl! 

"  Why,  she's  no  modesty  or  womanly  delicacy  at  all, 
or  she  would  not  try  to  attract  as  she  does  with  her  eyes, 
and  her  hands,  and  her  fan,  and  her  naked  arms,  and  the 
Lord  only  knows  what.  You  are  no  son  of  mine  if  you 
can  find  pleasure  in  the  society  of  such  women  as  she 
represents.  Why,  she  is  as  unlike  Beatrice  and  Rossie 
as  darkness  is  unlike  daylight." 

This  was  the  judge's  verdict,  and  Everard  felt  his 
chain  cutting  deeper  and  deeper  as  he  thought  how  im- 
possible it  was  for  him  to  acknowledge  the  marriage  now. 
lie  did  not  sleep  at  all  that  night,  and  the  morning  found 
him  pale,  and  haggard,  and  spiritless,  as  he  walked  down 
the  road  in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Everts'.  Josey  was 
waiting  for  him  and  ready  for  the  train.  She  had  not 


THE     RECEPTION.  105 

told  any  of  her  numerous  admirers  that  she  expected  to 
leave  that  morning,  as  she  wished  to  see  Everard  alone. 
She  was  neither  pale,  nor  fagged,  nor  tired-looking, 
though  she,  too,  had  passed  a  sleepless  night,  but  her 
complexion  was  just  as  soft,  and  creamy,  and  smooth, 
and  her  eyes  just  as  bright  and  melting  as  she  welcomed 
her  husband,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his,  said  to  him  : 

"  You  are  going  with  your  father,  I  suppose.  How 
long  before  I  can  come  too  ?" 

There  was  a  sudden  lifting  of  his  hand  to  his  head 
as  if  he  had  been  struck,  and  Everard  staggered  a  little 
back  from  her,  as  he  replied  : 

"  Come  to  Forrest  House  ?  I  don't  know.  I  am 
afraid  that  will  never  be  while  father  lives." 

"Yes,  I  saw  he  took  a  great  dislike  to  me,  and  prob- 
ably he  has  been  airing  his  opinion  of  me  to  you,"  she 
said,  tartly  ;  then,  as  Everard  did  not  speak,  she  con- 
tinued :  "  Tell  me  what  he  said  of  me." 

"  Why  should  he  say  anything  of  you  to  me  ?  He 
knows  nothing,"  Everard  asked,  and  Josephine  replied  : 

"I  don't  know  why.  I  only  know  he  has  ;  so,  out 
with  it.  I  insist  upon  knowing  the  worst.  What  did 
he  say  ?" 

There  was  a  hard  ring  in  her  voice,  which  Agnes  knew 
well,  but  which  Everard  had  never  heard  before,  and  a 
look  in  her  eyes  before  which  he  quailed  ;  and  after  a 
moment,  during  which  she  twice  repeated  : 

"Tell  me  what  he  said,"  he  answered  her  : 

"I  would  rather  not,  for  I  have  no  wish  to  wound 
you  unnecessarily,  and  what  father  said  was  not  compli- 
mentary." 

"I  know  that.  I  knew  he  hated  me,  but  I  insist  upon 
knowing  just  what  he  said  and  all  he  said,"  Josie  cried 
passionately,  for  she,  who  seldom  lost  her  temper  except 
with  Agnes,  was  beginning  to  lose  it  now. 

"If  you  will  insist  I  must  tell  you,  I  suppose," 
Everard  said,  "but  remember  that  father's  prejudices  are 
sometimes  unfounded." 

He  meant  to  soften  it  to  her  as  much  as  possible,  but 
he  told  her  the  truth,  and  Josie  was  conscious  of  a 
keener  pang  of  mortification  than  she  had  ever  felt  be- 
fore. She  had  meant  to  win  the  judge,  just  as  she 
won  all  men  when  she  tried,  but  she  had  failed  utterly. 

5* 


106  THE     RECEPTION. 

He  disliked  and  despised  her,  and  if  he  knew  she  was  his 
son's  wife  he  might  go  to  any  length  to  be  rid  of  her, 
even -to  the  attempting  a  divorce.  Once,  when  sorely 
pressed,  Agnes  had  suggested  that  idea  as  something 
which  might  occur  to  Everard,  and  said  : 

"You  know  that  under  the  circumstances  he  could 
get  one  easily." 

Josephine  knew  that  he  could,  too,  but  she  had  faith 
in  Everard.  He  would  not  bring  this  publicity  upon 
himself  and  her  ;  but  his  father  was  quite  another  sort  of 
person.  She  was  afraid  of  him,  and  of  what  he  might 
do  if  roused  to  action  as  a  knowledge  of  the  marriage 
would  rouse  him.  He  must  not  know  of  it  at  present, 
and  though  she  had  intended  to  make  Everard  acknowl- 
edge her  as  soon  as  he  was  graduated  and  settled  at 
home  she  changed  her  mind  suddenly,  and  was  almost 
as  anxious  to  keep  the  secret  as  Everard  himself. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  your  father  for  his  opinion 
of  me,"  she  said,  when  she  could  command  herself  to 
speak.  "  He  is  the  first  man  lever  failed  to  please  when 
I  really  tried  to  do  so,  and  I  did  try  hard  to  make  an  im- 
pression, but  it  was  all  a  waste  of  words  ;  he  is  drier 
and  stiffer  than  an  old  powder-horn.  I  don't  like  your 
father,  Everard,  and  I  am  free  to  say  so,  though,  of 
course,  I  mean  no  blame  to  you.  I  am  glad  I  have  met 
him,  for  I  understand  the  situation  perfectly,  and  know 
just  how  you  shrink  from  letting  him  know  our  secret. 
I  hoped  that  you  would  take  me  home  as  soon  as  you 
were  settled  at  your  law  studies  in  your  father's  office, 
but  I  am  convinced  that  to  announce  your  marriage  with 
me  at  present  would  be  disastrous  to  your  future  ;  so  we 
must  wait  still  longer,  hoping  that  something  will  turn 
up." 

She  spoke  very  cheerfully,  and  her  hand  was  on 
Everard's,  and  her  eyes  were  wearing  their  sweetest  ex- 
pression as  she  added  : 

"  But  you  will  write  to  me  often,  won't  you,  and  try 
to  love  me  again  as  you  did  before  that  night,  which  I 
wish  had  never  been  for  your  sake,  because  I  know  you 
are  sorry." 

He  did  not  say  he  was  not  ;  he  did  not  say  any- 
thing, but  the  shadow  lifted  from  his  face,  and  his  heart 
gave  a  great  bound  when  he  heard  from  her  own  lips 


THE     RECEPTION.  107 

that  she  should  not  urge  her  claim  upon  him  at  once. 
He  had  feared  this  with  such  fear  as  a  freed  slave  has  of 
a  return  to  his  chains,  and  now  that  he  was  to  have  a 
little  longer  respite,  he  felt  so  happy  and  grateful 
withal  that  when  she  said  to  him  : 

"  I  wish  you'd  kiss  me  once  for  the  sake  of  the 
old  time  ;"  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  twice,  and  let 
her  golden  head  rest  against  his  bosom,  where  she 
laid  it  for  a  moment,  but  he  felt  no  throb  of  love  for  this 
woman  who  was  his  wife.  That  was  dead,  and  he  could 
not  rekindle  it,  but  he  could  be  kind  to  her,  and  do  his 
duty  to  her,  and  he  talked  with  her  of  his  future,  and 
said  he  meant  to  go  to  work  at  something  at  once,  and 
hoped  to  become  a  regular  contributor  to  a  magazine 
which  paid  well,  and  he  seemed  so  bright  and  cheerful 
that  Josey  flattered  herself  that  she  had  touched  him, 
again.  Nothing  could  have  been  farther  from  the  truth, 
though  he  was  very  polite  to  her  and  went  with  her  to 
the  station,  where  she  was  immediately  surrounded  by  a 
bevy  of  students  who  were  there  also  to  take  the  train, 
and  who,  in  their  eagerness  to  serve  her,  left  E\  erard  far 
in  the  background. 

The  fact  that  youcg  Forrest,  who,  from  the  fastest, 
wildest  young  man  in  college  had  become  the  soberest, 
most  reserved,  and,  as  they  fancied,  most  aristocratic 
member  of  his  class,  had  attended  Miss  Fleming  to  the 
train,  did  not  in  the  least  lessen  her  in  the  estimation  of 
the  students  who  gathered  round  her  so  thickly.  Indeed, 
it  increased  her  importance,  and  she  knew  it,  and  felt  a 
great  pride  in  the  tall,  handsome,  dignified  man  who 
stood  and  saw  one  take  her  satchel,  another  her  shawl, 
and  another  her  umbrella,  while  he  who  alone  had  a  right 
to  render  her  these  attentions  looked  on  silently.  What- 
ever he  thought  he  gave  no  sign,  and  his  face  was  just 
as  grave  as  ever  when  at  last  he  said  good-by,  and  walked 

away. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

"Did  you  come  up  hereto  see  that  girl  off?"  was  said 
close  to  his  ear,  in  a  voice  and  tone  he  knew  so  well,  just 
as  he  left  the  depot,  and  turning  suddenly,  he  saw  his 
father,  with  an  unmistakable  look  of  displeasure  on  his 
face. 

The  judge  was  taking  his  morning  stroll,  and  had 


108  TWO    MONTHS. 

sauntered  to  the  station  just  in  time  to  see  the  long  curls 
he  remembered  so  well  float  out  of  the  car  window,  and 
to  see  the  fluttering  of  the  handkerchief  Josephine  was 
waving  at  his  son. 

"Yes,  father,  I  came  to  see  her  off.  There  was  no 
one  else  to  do  it,  and  I  know  her  so  well  ;  her  mother 
was  very  kind  to  me." 

"  Umph  !  I've  no  doubt  of  it.  Such  people  always 
are  kind  to  young  men  like  you,"  the  judge  said,  con- 
temptuously ;  "  but  I  won't  have  it ;  I  tell  you,  I  won't ! 
That  girl  is  just  as  full  of  tricks  as  she  can  hold,  and  is 
never  so  happy  as  when  she  has  twenty  or  more  fools 
dangling  after  her.  She  will  marry  the  one  with  the 
most  money,  of  course,  but  it  must  not  be  you  ;  re- 
member that.  I  believe  I'd  turn  you  out  of  doors." 

Just  then  they  met  one  of  the  professors,  and  that 
changed  the  conversation,  which  did  not  particularly 
tend  to  raise  Everard's  spirits,  as  he  went  to  the  house 
where  Beatrice  and  Rosamond  were  stopping.  Still,  he 
felt  a  great  burden  gone  when  he  remembered  that  of 
her  own  free  will  Josephine  had  decided  that  their  secret 
must  be  kept  for  a  while  longer,  and  something  of  his  own 
self  came  back  to  him  as  he  thought  of  months,  if  not  a 
whole  year  of  freedom,  with  Beatrice  and  Rossie,  at  the 
old  home  in  Rothsay. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
TWO  MONTHS. 

F  the  every-day  lives  of  the  three  young  peo- 
ple, Beatrice,  Everard,  and  Rosamond,  I 
wish  to  say  a  few  words  before  hurrying  on 
to  the  tragedy  which  cast  so  dark  a  shadow- 
over  them  all.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  the 
storm  now  in  the  rose-tinted  sky,  and  Everard  never 
forgot  that  bright  sumnaer  and  autumn  which  followed 
his  return  from  college, — when  he  was  so  happy  in  the 
society  of  Beatrice  and  Rossie.  It  is  true  he  never 
forgot  that  he  was  bound  fast,  with  no  hope  of 


TWO    MONTHS.  109 

ever  being  free,  but  here  in  Rothsay,  miles  and  miles 
away  from  the  chain  which  bound  him,  it  did  not  hurt 
so  much  or  seem  quite  so  hard  to  bear. 

Josephine  was  not  very  troublesome;  in  fact,  she  had 
only  written  to  him  twice,  and  then  she  did  not  ask  for 
money,  and  seemed  quite  as  anxious  as  himself  that  their 
secret  should  be  kept  from  his  father  until  some  way  wag 
found  to  reconcile  him  to  it.  Possibly  her  reticence  on 
the  subject  of  money  arose  from  the  fact  that  he  sent 
her  fifty  dollars  in  his  first  letter  written  after  his  return 
to  Rothsay.  This  large  sum  he  had  got  together  by  the 
most  rigid  economy  in  his  own  expenses,  and  by  the  in- 
terest on  a  few  shares  of  railroad  stock  which  a  relative 
had  left  to  him  as  her  godson.  This  stock  for  a  time  had 
been  good  for  nothing,  but  recently  it  had  risen  in  value, 
so  that  a  dividend  had  been  declared,  and  Everard  had 
sent  the  first  proceeds  to  Josephine;  but  his  boyish  love 
was  dead,  and  he  did  not  try  to  resuscitate  it,  or  build 
another  love  where  that  had  been;  he  was  content  with 
the  present  as  it  was.  His  father,  who  was  very  kind  to 
him,  and  seemed  trying  to  make  amends  for  his  former 
severity  and  harshness,  had  said  he  was  not  to  enter 
the  office  to  study  until  October.  Looking  in  his  boy's 
face,  he  had  seen  something  which  he  mistook  for  weari- 
ness, and  too  close  application  to  books,  and  he  said, 
"  You  do  not  seem  quite  well.  Your  mother's  family 
were  not  strong;  so  rest  till  October.  Have  a  good  time 
with  Rossie  and  Bee,  and  you  will  be  better  fitted  to 
bone  down  to  work  when  the  time  for  it  comes." 

This  was  a  great  deal  for  Judge  Forrest  to  say,  but 
he  felt  very  indulgent  toward  his  son,  who  had  gradu- 
ated with  so  much  honor,  and  who  seemed  to  be  wholly 
upright  and  steady;  and  in  a  fit  of  wonderful  generosity 
he  went  so  far  as  to  present  him  with  a  fine  mustang,  as 
a  fitting  match  to  Beatrice's  fleet  riding-horse.  This 
was  just  what  Everard  wanted,  and  he  and  Miss  Belknap 
rode  miles  and  miles  together  over  the  fine  roads  and 
through  the  beautiful  country  in  the  vicinity  of  Rothsay. 
Rosamond  sometimes  accompanied  them,  but  she  was 
not  fond  of  riding,  and  old  Bobtail,  the  gray  mare,  sent 
her  up  so  high,  and  seemed  so  out  of  place  beside  Bee's 
shining  black  pony,  and  Everard's  white-faced  mustang, 
that  she  preferred  remaining  at  home;  and  so  the  two 


110  TWO   MONTHS. 

were  left  to  themselves,  and  people  talked  knowingly  of 
what  was  sure  to  be,  and  hinted  it  to  Rosamond,  who 
never  contradicted  them,  but  by  her  manner  gave  credence 
to  the  story.  She  believed  implicitly  that  Beatrice  was 
coming  to  be  mistress  of  the  Forrest  House,  and  was 
very  happy  in  the  prospect,  for  next  to  Mr.  Everard  she 
liked  Bee  Belknap  better  than  any  person  in  the  world. 
Many  were  the  castles  she  built  of  the  time  when  Ever- 
ard should  bring  his  bride  home.  Since  Mrs.  Forrest's 
death  so  many  rooms  had  been  shut  up,  and  the  house 
had  seemed  so  lonely  and  almost  dreary,  especially  in  the 
winter,  but  with  Bee  there  all  would  be  changed,  and 
Rossie  even  indulged  in  the  hope  that  possibly  the  fur- 
niture in  her  own  little  room  might  be  replaced  by  better, 
or  at  least  added  to.  The  judge,  too,  watched  matters 
with  an  immense  amount  of  satisfaction.  Years  ago 
he  had  settled  it  that  Everard  would  marry  Bee, 
and  he  was  sure  of  it  now.  That  girl  with  the 
yellow  hair,  as  he  always  called  Josephine  to  himself, 
was  not  anything  to  his  son,  as  he  had  once  feared  she 
might  be.  Everard  could  never  stoop  to  her  ;  Everard 
would  marry  Bee,  and  it  might  as  well  take  place  at  once; 
there  was  no  need  to  wait,  and  just  as  soon  as  his  son 
was  established  in  the  office  he  meant  to  speak  to  him, 
and  if  it  were  not  already  settled  it  should  be,  and 
Christmas  was  the  time  fixed  in  his  own  mind  as  a  fitting 
season  for  the  bridal  festivities.  He  would  fill  the  house 
with  guests  all  through  the  holidays,  and  when  they  were 
gone  the  young  couple  might  journey  as  far  as  Wash- 
ington, or  even  Florida,  if  they  liked.  Then  in  the 
spring  Bee  could  fit  up  the  south  side  of  the  house  as 
expensively  as  she  chose,  and  Rossie  should  have  the 
large  corner  room  next  his  own  on  the  north  side,  thus 
leaving  the  newly-married  pair  as  much  to  themselves 
as  possible. 

And  so  the  wires  were  being  laid,  and  Everard  stepped 
over  and  around  them  all  unconsciously,  and  took  the 
goods  the  gods  provided  for  him,  whether  in  the  shape 
of  Beatrice,  or  Rosamond,  or  his  father's  uniform  kind- 
ness toward  him  ;  and  the  September  days  went  by,  and 
October  came,  and  found  him  a  student  at  last  in  his 
father's  office,  where  he  bent  every  energy  to  mastering 
the  law  and  gaining  his  profession.  There  were  no  more 


THE  HO  US?   OF  CARDS  BEGINS  TO  FALL.    Ill 


long  rides  with  Beatrice,  and  his  mustang  chafed  and 
fretted  and  gr/'  ff  unmanageable  for  want  of  exercise. 
There  were  no  /  .ore  strolls  in  the  leafy  woods  with  Rossie, 
who  gathered  he  nuts,  and  ferns  and  grasses  alone,  and 
rarely  had  E  erard's  society  except  at  meal-time,  when 
she  manage  4  to  post  him  with  regard  to  all  the  details 
of  her  qp'.et,  every-day  life.  She  was  reading  Chateau- 
briand's "  Atala  "  in  French,  and  found  it  rather  stupid  ; 
or  she  was-learning  a  new  piece  of  music  she  knew  he 
would  like  ;  or  old  Blue  had  six  new  kittens  in  his  trunk 
up  in  the  garret,  and  she  wished  him  to  go  and  see  them. 
Everard  was  always  interested  in  what  interested 
Rosamond,  and  on  no  one  did  his  glance  rest  so  kindly 
as  on  this  little  old-fashioned  girl,  in  whom  there  seemed 
to  be  no  guile  ;  but  he  had  no  leisure  time  to  give  her. 
It  was  his  plan  to  get  his  profession  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  then,  taking  Josephine,  go  to  some  new  place  in  the 
far  West,  where  he  could  grow  up  with  the  town,  and 
perhaps  be  comparatively  independent  and  happy.  But 
his  future  had  been  ordered  otherwise,  and  suddenly, 
without  a  note  of  warning,  his  house  of  cards  came 
down,  and  buried  him  in  its  ruins. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
THE  HOUSE  OF  CAKDS  BEGINS  TO  FALL. 

IVERARD  had  been  in  his  father's  office  five 
weeks  or  more,  when,  on  a  rainy  morning 
early  in  November,  just  as  he  was  settling 
himself  to  his  books,  and  congratulating 
himself  upon  the  luxury  of  a  quiet  day,  his 
father  came  in,  and  after  looking  over  the  paper,  and 
poking  the  fire  vigorously,  seated  himself  opposite  his 
son,  and  began  : 

"  Everard,  put  down  your  book  ;  I  want  to  talk  with 
you/' 

"Yes,  sir,"  Everard  replied,  closing  the  book  and  fac- 
ing his  father  with  an  unaccountable  dread  that  some- 
thing unpleasant  was  coming. 


113    THE  HOUSE   OF  CARDS  BEGINS   TO  FALL. 

"  It's  never  my  way  to  beat  round  the  bush,"  the 
judge  began  ;  "  I  come  to  the  point  at  once,  and  so  I  want 
to  know  if  you  and  Bee  have  settled  it  yet  ?" 

"  Settled  what  ?"  Everard  asked  ;  and  his  father  re- 
plied : 

"  Don't  be  a  fool  and  put  on  girlish  airs.  Marrying 
is  as  much  a  matter  of  business  as  anything  else,  and  we 
may  discuss  it  just  the  same.  You  don't  suppose  me  in 
my  dotage,  that  I  have  not  seen  what  is  in  everybody's 
mouth, — your  devotion  to  Beatrice  and  her  readiness  to 
receive  it ;  wait  till  I'm  through,"  he  continued,  authori- 
tatively, as  he  saw  Everard  about  to  speak.  "  I  like  the 
girl ;  have  always  liked  her,  though  she  is  a  wild,  saucy 
thing,  but  that  will  correct  itself  in  time.  Your  mother 
believed  in  her  fully,  and  she  knew  what  was  in  women. 
She  hoped  you  would  marry  Bee  some  day,  and  what  I 
wish  to  say  is  this  :  you  may  think  you  must  wait  till 
you  get  your  profession,  but  there  is  no  need  of  that  at 
all.  You  are  twenty-two.  You  have  matured  wonder- 
fully the  last  two  years,  and  I  may  say  improved,  too  ; 
time  was  when  I  could  hardly  speak  peaceably  of  you 
for  the  scrapes  you  were  eternally  getting  into,  but  you 
dropped  all  that  after  yo'ur  poor  mother  died.  I  was 
proud  of  you  at  Commencement.  I  am  proud  of  you 
now,  and  I  want  you  to  marry  at  once.  The  house  needs 
a  mistress,  and  I  have  fixed  upon  Christmas  as  the  proper 
time  for  the  wedding,  so  if  you  have  not  settled  it  with 
Bee/do  so  at  once." 

"  But,  father,"  Everard  gasped,  with  a  face  as  white 
as  snow,  '*  it  is  impossible  that  I  should  marry  Beatrice. 
I  have  never  for  a  moment  considered  such  a  thing." 

"The  deuce  you  haven't,"  the  judge  exclaimed,  be- 
ginning to  get  angry.  "  Pray,  let  me  ask  you  why  you 
have  been  racing  and  chasing  after  her  ever  since  you 
came  home,  if  you  never  considered  the  thing,  as  you 
say  ?  Others  have  considered  it,  if  you  have  not.  Every- 
body thinks  you  are  to  marry  her,  and,  by  George,  I 
won't  have  her  compromised.  No,  I  won't  !  She  could 
sue  you  for  breach  of  promise,  and  recover,  too,  with  all 
this  dancing,  and  prancing,  and  scurripping  round  the 
country.  If  you  have  not  thought  of  it,  you  must  think 
of  it  now.  You  surely  like  the  girl." 

He  stopped  to  take  breath,  and  Everard  answered  him: 


THE  HOUSE   OF   CARDS  BEGINS   TO  FALL.    113 

"Yes,  father,  I  like  her  very  much,  but  not  in  that 
way, — not  as  a  wife,  and  I  never  can.  It  is  impossible." 

"  Why  impossible  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?"  the  judge 
said,  loudly  and  angrily.  "Is  there  somebody  else? 
Is  it  that  yellow-haired  hussy  who  made  those  eyes  at 
me,  because,  if  it  is,  by  Jove,  you  are  no  son  of  mine, 
and  you  may  as  well  understand  it  first  as  last.  I'll  never 
sanction  that,  never  !  Why  don't  you  answer  me,  and 
not  stare  at  me  so  like  an  idiot?  Do  you  like  that 
white-livered  woman  better  than  Beatrice  ?  Do  you 
think  her  a  fitter  wife  for  you  and  companion  for  Rosa- 
mond ?" 

Everard  had  opened  his  lips  to  tell  the  truth,  but 
what  his  father  said  of  Josephine  sealed  them  tight;  but 
he  answered  his  father's  last  questions,  and  said  : 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  her  a  fitter  companion  for  Rossie 
than  Beatrice,  and  I  do  not  like  her  better." 

"Then  what  in  thunder  is  in  the  way?"  the  judge 
asked,  slightly  appeased.  "Have  you  any  fears  of  Bee's 
saying  no  ?  I  can  assure  you  there.  I  know  she  won't. 
I  am  as  certain  of  it  as  that  I  am  living  now." 

Suddenly  there  shot  across  Everard's  mind  a  way  of 
escape  from  the  difficulty,  a  chance  for  a  longer  respite, 
and  he  said  : 

"If  I  were  to  ask  Bee  to  marry  me  and  she  refused 
would  you  be  satisfied  ?" 

"  With  you  ?  Yes,  but,  I  tell  you  she  won't  refuse. 
And  don't  you  ask  her  unless  you  intend  to  stick  to 
it  like  a  man,"  the  judge  replied,  as  he  rose  to  end  the 
conference. 

"  I  shall  ask  her,  and  to-night,"  was  Everard's  low- 
spoken  answer,  which  reached  his  father's  ears,  and  sent 
him  home  in  a  better  frame  of  mind. 

He  was  very  gracious  to  Everard  at  dinner,  and  paid 
him  the  compliment  of  consulting  him  on  some  business 
matter,  but  Everard  was  too  much  pre-occupied  to  heed 
what  he  was  saying,  and  declining  the  dessert  excused 
himself  from  the  table,  and  went  to  his  own  room. 

Never  since  his  ill-starred  marriage  had  he  felt  so 
troubled  and  perplexed  as  now,  when  the  fruit  of  his 
wrong-doing  was  staring  him  so  broadly  in  the  face.  That 
his  father  would  never  leave  him  in  peace  until  he  proposed 
to  Beatrice,  he  knew,  and  unless  he  confessed  everything 


114    THE  HOUSE   OF  GAUDS  BEGINS   TO  FALL. 

and  threw  himself  upon  his  mercy,  there  was  but  one 
course  left  him  to  pursue, — tell  Beatrice  the  whole 
story,  wi  hout  the  slightest  prevarication,  and  then 
go  through  the  farce  of  offering  himself  to  her,  who 
must,  of  course,  refuse.  This  refusal  he  could  report  to 
his  father,  who  would  not  blame  him,  and  so  a  longer 
probation  would  come  to  himself. 

In  his  excitement  he  did  not  stop  to  consider  what  a 
cowardly  thing  it  was  to  throw  the  responsibility  upon 
a  girl,  and  make  her  bear  the  burden  for  him.  To  do 
him  jnstice,  however,  he  did  not  for  a  moment  suppose 
Beatrice  cared  for  him  as  his  father  believed  she  did,  or 
he  would  never  have  gone  to  insult  her  with  an  offer  she 
could  not  accept. 

He  knew  she  was  beautiful  and  sweet,  and  all  that 
was  lovely  and  desirable  in  womanhood,  but  she  was  not 
for  him.  She,  nor  any  one  like  her,  could  ever  be  his 
wife.  He  had  made  that  impossible  ;  had  by  his  own 
act  put  such  as  she  far  out  of  his  reach.  But  when 
he  reached  Elm  Park  and  saw  her,  so  graceful  and  lady- 
like, and  heard  the  well-bred  tones  of  her  voice,  and 
remembered  how  pure  and  £Ood  she  was,  there  did  come 
to  him  the  thought  that  if  there  was  no  Josephine  in  the 
way,  he  might  in  time  have  come  to  say  in  earnest  to 
this  true,  spotless  girl  what  now  was  but  a  cruel  jest,  if 
she  cared  for  him, — which  she  did  not  in  the  way  his 
father  believed  she  did  ; — he  was  her  friend,  her 
brother.  The  Fejee  missionary,  whose  name  she  saw  so 
often  in  the  papers,  and  who  had  recently  been  removed 
to  a  more  eligible  field,  had  never  been  quite  forgotten, 
though  there  was  nothing  left  to  her  now  of  him  except 
a  faded  pond-lily,  given  the  day  she  told  him  no,  and 
with  his  kiss,  the  first  and  last,  upon  her  forehead,  sent 
him  away  to  the  girl  among  the  Vermont  hills,  with  the 
glasses  and  the  brown  alpaca  dress.  She  had  no  suspi- 
cion of  the  nature  of  his  errand,  and  was  surprised  when, 
as  if  anxious  to  have  it  off  his  mind,  he  began,  impul- 
sively : 

"  Beatrice,  1  have  come  to  say  something  serious  to 
you  to-night,  and  I  want  you  to  stop  jesting  and  be  as 
much  in  earnest  as  I  am,  for  I, — I  am  terribly  in  earnest 
for  once  in  my  life.  Bee, — I, — I  feel  as  if  I  were  going 
to  be  hang  and  do  the  deed  myself." 


THE  HOUSE   OF   CARDS  BEGINS    TO  FALL.    115 

« 

But  his  face  was  white  as  marble,  and  his  voice  shook 
as  he  continued  : 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something, — going  to  ask 
you  something, — going  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  but 
you  must  refuse." 

It  was  an  odd  way  of  putting  it,  and  not  at  all  what 
Everard  had  intended  to  do.  He  meant  to  tell  her  first 
and  offer  himself  afterward  as  a  mere  form,  but  in  his 
agitation  and  excitement  he  had  just  reversed  it, — had 
told  her  he  was  there  to  ask  her  to  marry  him,  and  she 
must  tell  him  no  !  and  a  look  of  scorn  sprang  to  her 
eyes  as  she  drew  back  from  him  and  said,  "  You  pre- 
sume much  on  my  good  nature,  when  you  tell  me  in  one 
instant  that  you  propose  asking  me  to  be  your  wife,  and 
next  that  I  must  refuse  you  if  you  do.  What  reason 
have  you  to  think  I  would  accept  you,  pray  ?" 

He  knew  she  was  indignant,  and  justly  so,  and  he  an- 
swered her  with  such  a  pleading  pathos  in  his  voice  as 
disarmed  her  at  once  of  her  wrath. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Bee.  I  have  commenced 
all  wrong.  I  believe  my  mind  is  not  quite  straight.  I 
did  not  come  to  insult  you.  I  came  because  I  must 
come.  I  want  you  for  a  friend,  such  as  I  have  not  in 
all  the  world.  I  want  your  advice  and  sympathy.  I 
want, — oh,  I  am  the  most  wretched  person  living  !" 

And  he  seated  himself  upon  the  sofa,  and  sat  with  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands,  while  Beatrice  stood  looking  at 
him  a  moment  ;  then,  going  forward  she  laid  her  hand 
softly  on  his  head,  and  said,  "What  is  it,  Everard? 
What  is  it  you  wish  to  tell  me?" 

Without  looking  up  he  answered  her  : 

"  Oh,  Bee,  I  wish  I  were  dead  !  Sit  down  beside  me 
and  listen  to  all  I  have  to  tell." 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  and  listened  intently  to  the 
story  Everard  told  her  in  full,  concealing  nothing  where 
he  was  concerned,  but  shielding  Josephine  as  far  as  was 
possible.  Rosamond's  noble  sacrifice  of  her  hair  was  ex- 
plained, and  her  mistake  about  Joe  Fleming,  who  in  her 
imagination  still  existed  somewhere  in  whiskers  and  tall 
boots,  and  was  the  evil  genius  of  Everard's  life.  Here 
Beatrice  laughed  merrily  once,  then  questioned  Everard 
rapidly  with" regard  to  every  particular  of  his  marriage, 


Ii6    THE  HOUSE   OF  CARDS  BEGINS   TO  FALL. 

and  the  family,  and  the  girl.     Where  was  she  now  and 
what  was  she  like  ? 

"You  have  seen  the  picture,  Bee,"  he  said.  "I 
showed  it  to  you  that  day  I  broke  my  head,  two  years 
ago,  and  you  said  she  looked  as  if  she  might  wear  cotton 
l:ice,  while  mother,  to  whom  I  showed  it,  too,  hinted  at 
dollar  jewelry,  and  Rossie  said  she  looked  as  if  she  were 
a  sham." 

Here  Everard  laughed  himself,  but  there  was  more 
of  bitterness  than  mirth  in  it,  and  Beatrice  laughed,  too, 
as  she  said  : 

"That  was  rather  hard  ; — cotton  lace,  dollar  jewelry, 
and  a  sham,  though,  after  all,  Rossie's  criticism  was 
really  of  the  most  consequence,  if  true  ;  perhaps  it  is  not. 
Have  you  her  picture  now  ?" 

He  passed  it  to  her,  and  with  a  shrewd  woman's  in- 
tuition, quickened  by  actual  knowledge,  Beatrice  felt 
that  it  was  true,  and  her  first  womanly  instinct  was  to 
help  and  comfort  this  man  who  had  brought  his  secret 
to  her. 

"  Ned,"  she  said  to  him,  and  the  name,  now  so  seldom 
used,  took  her  back  to  the  days  when  she  first  came  from 
France  and  played  and  quarreled  with  him.  It  made  her 
altogether  his  sister,  and  as  such  she  spoke.  "  Ned,  I 
am  so  sorry  for  you  ;  sorrier  than  I  can  express,  and  I 
want  to  help  you  some  way,  and  I  think  it  must  be 
through  Josephine.  She  is  your  wife,  and  by  your  own 
showing  you  were  quite  as  much  in  fault  as  she." 

"  Yes,  quite,"  and  Everard  shivered  a  little,  for  he 
guessed  what  was  coming. 

"  Well,  then,"  Beatrice  went  on,  "  ought  you  not  to 
make  the  best  of  it?  You  took  her  for  better  or  worse, 
knowing  what  you  were  doing.  You  loved  her  then. 
Can  you  not  do  so  again  ?  Is  it  not  your  duty  to  try?" 

"  Oh,  Bee,  you  do  not  know,  you  do  not  understand. 
She  is  not  like  you,  nor  Rossie,  nor  mother." 

"  Well,  try  to  make  her  like  us,  then,"  Beatrice  re- 
plied. "  If  her  surroundings  are  not  such  as  please  you, 
remove  her  from  them  at  once.  Recognize  her  as  your 
wife.  Bring  her  home  to  Forrest  House  and  I  will  stand 
her  friend  to  the  death." 

Everard  knew  that  Bee  meant  what  she  said,  and  that 
her  influence  was    worth  more  than   that  of  the  whole 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CARDS  BEGINS   TO  FALL.    117 

town,  and  if  he  could  have  felt  any  love  or  even  desire 
for  Josephine,  it  would  have  seemed  easy  to  acknowledge 
his  marriage,  with  Bee's  hopeful  words  in  his  ear  and 
Bee's  strong  nature  to  back  him,  but  he  did  not.  He 
had  no  love,  no  desire  for  her  ;  he  was  happier  away  from 
her,  happier  to  live  his  present  life  with  Beatrice  and 
Rossie  ;  and,  besides  that,  he  could  not  bring  her  home  ; 
his  father  would  never  permit  it,  and  would  probably 
turn  him  from  the  door  if  he  knew  of  the  alliance.  This 
Bee  did  not  know,  but  he  told  her  of  the  great  aversion 
his  father  had  conceived  for  the  girl  whom  he  stigma- 
tized as  the  yellow-haired  hussy  from  Massachusetts, 
"  and  after  that,  do  you  think  I  can  te'.l  him  ?"  he  asked. 

"It  will  be  hard,  I  know,"  Beatrice  replied,  "but  it 
seems  your  only  course,  if  he  insists  upon  your  marrying 
me." 

"  But  if  I  tell  him  you  refused  me,  it  may  make  a 
difference,  and  things  can  go  on  as  they  are  until  I  get 
my  profession,"  Everard  pleaded,  with  a  shrinking 
which  he  knew  was  cowardly  from  all  which  the  telling 
his  father  might  involve. 

"Even  then  you  are  but  putting  off  the  evil  day,  and 
a  thing  concealed  grows  worse  as  time  goes  on,"  Bee 
said.  "  You  must  confess  it  some  time,  and  why  not  do 
it  now.  At  the  most  your  father  can  but  turn  you  from 
his  door,  and  if  he  does  that  take  your  wife  and  go  some- 
where else.  You  are  young,  and  the  world  is  all  before 
you,  and  if  there  is  any  true  womanhood  in  Josephine, 
it  will  assert  itself  when  she  knows  all  you  have  lost  for 
her.  She  will  grow  to  your  standard.  She  has  a  sweet, 
childish  face,  and  must  have  a  loving,  affectionate 
nature.  Give  her  a  chance,  Everard,  to  show  what  she 
is." 

This  giving  her  a  chance  was  just  what  Everard 
dreaded  the  most.  So  long  as  his  life  with  Josephine 
was  in  the  future,  he  could  be  tolerably  content,  and 
even  happy,  but  when  it  looked  him  square  in  the  face, 
as  something  which  must  be  met,  he  shrank  from  meet- 
ing it. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  do  that,  at  least,  not  yet,"  he  said. 
"  It  will  hamper  me  so  in  my  studies.  I  cannot  tell 
father,  and  bear  the  storm  sure  to  follow.  Josephine 
must  stay  where  she  is  till  I  see  what  I  can  do." 


118    THE  HOUSE  OF  CARDS  BEGINS  TO  FALL. 

"  But  is  that  best  for  her  ?"  Beatrice  asked.  "  What 
sort  of  a  woman  is  her  mother  ?  She  may  be  a  lady,  and 
still  be  very  poor.  What  is  she,  Everard  ?" 

He  had  refrained  from  speaking  of  Josephine's  ante- 
cedents to  Beatrice.  He  would  rather  she  should  not 
know  all  he  knew  of  the  family.  It  would  be  kinder  to 
Josephine  to  spare  her  so  much  ;  but  when  Beatrice  ap- 
pealed to  him  with  regard  to  the  mother,  he  told  just 
who  Mrs.  Fleming  was. 

Bee  Belknap  was  a  born  aristocrat,  and  some  of  the 
bluest  blood  of  Boston  was  in  her  veins.  Indeed,  she 
traced  her  pedigree  back  to  Miles  Standish  on  her 
father's  side,  while  her  mother  came  straight  down  from 
a  Scottish  earl,  who  married  the  rector's  daughter.  She 
was  proud  of  her  birth,  and  the  training  she  had  received 
at  home  and  abroad  had  tended  to  increase  this  pride, 
and  it  was  hard  for  her  to  understand  just  how  people 
like  Roxie  Fleming  could  stand  on  the  same  social  plat- 
form with  herself.  She  knew  they  did,  but  she  rebelled 
against  it,  and  for  a  moment  Josephine's  cause  was  in 
danger  of  being  lost  so  far  as  she  was  concerned.  She 
had  thought  of  her  as  probably  the  daughter  of  some 
poor,  but  highly  respectable  farmer,  or  mechanic,  whose 
mother  took  boarders,  as  many  women  do  to  make  a  lit- 
tle money,  and  whose  daughters,  perhaps,  stitched  shoes 
or  made  bonnets,  as  New  England  girls  often  do,  but 
now  that  she  knew  the  truth  she  stood  for  a  moment 
aghast,  and  then,  her  strong,  sensible  nature  asserted  it- 
self and  whispered  to  her,  "  a  man's  a  man  for  a'  that." 
Josephine  was  no  more  to  blame  for  the  accident  of  her 
birth  than  was  she,  Beatrice  Belknap,  to  be  praised  for 
hers.  "  I'll  stand  by  her  all  the  same,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, but  she  did  not  urge  quite  so  strenuously  upon  Ev- 
erard the  necessity  of  telling  his  father  at  once,  for  she 
felt  sure  the  irascible  judge  would  leave  no  stone  un- 
turned to  ascertain  who  his  daughter-in-law  was,  and  that 
the  ascertaining  would  result  even  worse  than  Everard 
feared. 

"  It  may  be  better  to  keep  silent  a  little  longer,"  she 
said,  and  meanwhile  she'd  turn  the  matter  over  in  her 
own  mind  and  see  what  she  could  do  to  help  him. 

"But  in  order  to  have  any  peace  at  home  I  must  tell 
father  that  you  refused  me,"  Everard  said,  "  and  I  have 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CARDS  DEGIXS  TO   FALL.    119 

not  yet  gone  through  the  farce  of  offering  myself,  or 
you  of  refusing  the  offer." 

Then,  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  his  face  he  arose, 
and  standing  before  Beatrice,  continued  :  "  Bee,  will  you 
marry  me y 

"  Xo,  Everard,  I  will  not,"  was  Bee's  reply,  as  she, 
too,  rose,  and  looked  at  him,  with  eyes  in  which  the  hot 
tears  gathered  swiftly,  while  there  came  to  her  suddenly 
a  feeling  that  she  had  lost  something  which  had  been 
very  dear  to  her,  and  that  her  intercourse  with  Everard 
could  never  again  be  just  what  it  had  been.  It  is  true, 
she  had  never  seriously  thought  of  him  as  her  future 
husband,  but  she  knew  that  others  had  thought  it,  and 
with  his  words,  "Bee,  will  you  marry  me?"  it  came  to 
her  with  a  great  shock  that  possibly,  under  other  cir- 
cumstances, she  might  have  answered  yes.  But  all  that 
was  over  now.  He  had  put  a  bar  between  them,  and  by 
neither  word  nor  look  must  she  tempt  him  to  cross  it;  so, 
brushing  her  tears  away  with  a  quick,  impatient  gesture, 
and  forcing  a  merry  laugh,  which  sounded  not  unlike  a 
hysterical  sob,  she  said,  "What  children  we  are,  Ever- 
ard." 

Yes,  they  were  children  in  one  sense,  and  in  another 
the  man  and  woman  was  strong  within  them,  and  Ever- 
ard saw  something  in  the  girl's  eyes  which  startled  him, 
and  made  his  heart  throb  quickly  as  he,  too,  thought  "it 
might  have  been"  But  with  the  instincts  of  a  noble, 
true  man  he  forced  the  new-born  feeling  down,  and  tak- 
ing both  her  hands  in  his  held  them  while  he  said  : 

"You  must  forgive  me,  Bee,  for  seeming  to  insult 
you  with  words  which  were  a  mere  farce.  You  have 
been  my  friend, — the  best  I  ever  had, — and  your  friend- 
ship and  society  are  very  dear  to  me,  who  never  knew  a 
sister's  love.  Can  I  keep  them  still  after  showing  y^ou 
just  the  craven  coward  and  sneak  I  am?" 

"Yes,  Everard,  you  may  trust  me.  I  will  always  be 
your  friend,  and  your  wife's  friend  as  well,"  Beatrice  re- 
plied, and  then  Everard  went  away,  and  she  was  left 
alone  to  think  of  the  story  she  had  heard,  and  to  realize 
more  and  more  all  she  had  lost  in  losing  Everard.  The 
boy,  whom  she  had  teased,  and  ridiculed,  and  tormented, 
and  who  had  likened  her  to  his  grandmother,  had  be- 
come so  necessary  to  her  in  his  fresh  young  manhood, 


120    THE  HOUSE   OF  CARDS  BEGINS  TO  FALL. 

that  it  was  hard  to  give  him  up  ;  but  Bee  was  equal  to 
the  emergency,  and  with  a  little  laugh  she  said  : 

"On  the  whole  I  am  glad  there  is  one  man  whom  I 
cannot  get  upon  my  string,  as  Aunt  Rachel  would  say  ; 
but  that  this  man  should  be  the  boy  who  I  once  vowed 
should  offer  himself  to  me  and  be  refused,  or  I  would 
build  a  church  in  Omaha,  is  mortifying  to  my  pride. 
He  has  offered  and  been  refused,  and  so  the  church  obli- 
gation is  null  and  void.  But  I  must  do  something  as  a 
memorial  of  this  foolishness,  which  I  never  dreamed  of 
until  to-night.  I  wonder  if  Sister  Rhoda  Baker  don't 
want  something  for  her  church  by  this  time.  I'll  go  and 
see  to-morrow,  and  take  her  mother  to  ride.  It's  an  age 
since  I  gave  her  an  airing,  and  my  purple  velvet  will 
contrast  beautifully  with  her  quilted  hood  and  black 
shawl." 

Bee  Belknap  was  a  queer  compound,  and  when,  next 
morning,  the  distant  relative  who  lived  with  her  as  chap- 
eron, and  whom  she  called  Aunt  Rachel,  said  to  her  : 
"What  was  that  Forrest  here  for  so  late?  I  thought 
he'd  never  go,"  she  answered,  readily  : 

"  He  was  here  to  ask  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  refused 
him  flat." 

"  You  refused  him  !  Are  you  crazy,  Beatrice  ?"  Aunt 
Rachel  exclaimed,  putting  down  her  coffee-cup  and  star- 
ing blankly  at  the  young  girl,  who  replied  : 

"  Yes.     Have  you  any  objections  ?" 

"  Objections  !  Beatrice  Belknap  !  I  thought  this 
was  sure.  See  if  you  don't  go  through  the  woods  and 
take  up  with  a  crooked  stick  at  last.  Do  you  know  how 
old  you  are  ?" 

"  Yes,  auntie.  I  am  twenty-three  ;  just  eleven 
months  and  fifteen  days  older  than  Everard,  and  in 
se^n  years  more  I  shall  be  thirty,  and  an  old  maid. 
A^rer  that,  tortures  cannot  wring  my  age  from  rne. 
Honestly,  though,  Everard  was  not  badly  hurt.  He  will 
recover  in  time,  and  maybe  marry, — well,  marry  Rossie  ; 
who  knows?" 

"  Marry  Rossie  !  That  child, — homely  as  a  hedge 
fence  !"  was  the  indignant  reply  of  Aunt  Rachel,  who 
was  not  always  choice  in  her  selection  of  language. 

"  Rosamond  is  fifteen,  and  growing  pretty  every 
day,"  Beatrice  retorted,  always  ready  to  defend  her  pet. 


THE  HOUSE   OF   CARDS  BEGINS   TO  FALL.    121 

"  She  has  magnificent  eyes  and  hair,  and  the  sweetest 
voice  I  ever  heard.  Her  complexion  is  clearing  up,  her 
face  and  figure  rounding  out,  and  she  will  yet  be  a 
beauty,  and  cast  me  in  the  shade,  with  my  crows-feet  and 
wrinkles  ;  see  if  she  does  not ;  but  I  cannot  afford  to  quar- 
rel any  longer  ;  I  am  going  to  take  Widow  Ricketts  out 
to  ride,  so  good-by,  auntie,  and  don't  be  sorry  that  I  am 
not  to  leave  you  yet.  You  and  I  will  have  many  years 
together,  I  hope." 

She  kissed  her  aunt,  and  went  gayly  from  the  room, 
singing  as  she  went.  An  hour  later  and  she  was  whirl- 
ing along  the  smooth  river  road,  with  the  quilted  hood 
and  black  shawl  of  Widow  Ricketts,  who,  unused  to 
such  fast  driving,  held  on  to  the  side  of  the  little  phae- 
ton, sweating  like  rain  with  fear,  and  feeling  very  glad 
when  at  last  she  was  set  down  safe  and  sound  at  her 
daughter's  door  without  a  broken  neck. 

Rhoda's  church  was  wanting  a  new  furnace,  and 
Bee's  check  for  fifty  dollars  made  the  heart  of  the  good 
Nazarite  woman  very  warm  and  tender  toward  the  girl 
who  had  once  pretended  to  have  the  "  power,"  just  for 
the  fun  of  the  thing  !  On  reaching  home  Bee  found  a 
note  from  Everard,  which  had  been  left  by  a  boy  from 
the  village,  during  her  absence,  and  which  ran  as 
follows  : 

"  DEAR  BEE  : — After  leaving  you  last  night,  I  went 
to  father,  who  was  waiting  for  me,  and  goaded  me  into 
telling  him  everything  there  was  to  tell  of  Josephine. 
Of  course,  he  turned  me  out  of  doors  immediately,  and 
said  I  was  no  longer  his  son.  I  might  sleep  in  my  room 
during  the  night,  but  in  the  morning  I  must  be  off.  But 
I  did  not  sleep  there.  I  couldn't,  with  his  dreadful  lan- 
guage in  my  ears.  If  I  had  been  guilty  of  murdei\ke 
could  not  have  talked  worse  to  me  than  he  did,  or  calWfc 
me  viler  names.  So  I  packed  a  few  things  in  my  valise, 
and  staid  in  the  carriage-house  till  it  was  light.  Now,  I 
am  writing  this  to  you,  and  shall  have  some  boy  to 
deliver  it,  as  I  take  the  first  train  South.  I  have  given 
up  law,  and  shall  find  something  in  Cincinnati  or  Louis- 
ville which  will  bring  me  ready  money.  If  you  should 
wish  to  communicate  with  me,  direct  to  the  Spencer 
House.  I  shall  get  my  mail  there  a  while,  as  I  know 


122      THE    HOUSE    OF    CARDS    GOES    DOWN. 

the  clerk.  Don't  tell  Rossie  of  Josephine.  I'd  rather 
she  should  not  know.  God  bless  her  and  you,  my  best 
friends  in  all  the  world.  And  so,  good-by.  I've  sown 
the  wind,  and  am  reaping  the  whirlwind  with  a  ven- 
geance. J.  E.  FOKKEST." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
THE    HOUSE  OF  CAKDS   GOES   DOWN. 


T   was   past   eleven    when   Everard   left   Elm 
Park  after  his  interview  with  Beatrice,  and 
nearly   half-past    when    he    reached    home, 
expecting   to   find    the  house  dark,  and  the 
family  in  bed.     But  as  he  walked  slowly  up 
the  avenue,  he  saw  a  light  in  his  father's  room,  and  the 
figure  of  a  man  walking  back  and  forth,  as  if  impatient 
of  something. 

"  Can  it  be  he  is  waiting  for  me  ?"  he  thought,  and  a 
sigh  escaped  him  as  he  felt  how  unequal  he  was  to  a  con- 
flict with  his  father  that  night. 

Entering  the  hall  as  noiselessly  as  possible  he  groped 
his  way  up  stairs  to  the  broad  landing,  when  the  dark- 
ness was  suddenly  broken  by  a  flood  of  light  which 
poured  from  Rossie's  room,  and  Rossie  herself  appeared 
in  the  door,  holding  her  gray  flannel  dressing-gown 
together  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  shedding  her 
hair  back  from  her  face,  which  looked  tired  and  sleepy, 
as  she  said:  "Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  Your  father 
wants  to  see  you,  and  asked  me  to  sit  up  and  tell  you 
when  you  came.  Good-night !"  and  she  stepped  back 
ttito  her  room,  while  he  passed  slowly  down  the  hall,  and 
she  saw  him  knock  at  his  father's  room  at  the  far  end  of 
the  passage. 

"  Well,  my  son,  so  you've  come  at  last,"  the  judge 
said  to  him,  but  there  was  no  anger  in  his  voice,  only  a 
plight  tone  of  irritation  that  he  had  been  kept  up  so  late. 
"  You  have  been  to  see  Bee,  I  take  it,  and,  from  the 
length  of  time  you  staid,  conclude  that  you  settled  the 
little  matter  we  were  talking  about  this  morning." 


THE    HOUSE    OF    CARDS     GOES    DOWN.      123 

"  Yes,  father,  we  settled  it,"  Everard  said,  but  his 
voice  was  not  the  voice  of  a  hopeful,  happy  lover,  and 
his  father  looked  suspiciously  at  him  as  he  continued  : 

"With  what  result?" 

"  Beatrice  refused  me  ;"  and  Everard's  voice  was  still 
lower  and  more  hopeless. 

"Refused  you  !  'Tig  false  !  You  never  asked  her  !" 
the  judge  exclaimed,  growing  angry  at  once. 

"  Father  !"  and  now  Everard  looked  straight  in  his 
sire's  face,  "  do  you  mean  to  say  I  lie,  and  I  your  son 
and  mother's  ?" 

The  judge  knew  that  in  times  past  Everard  had  been 
guilty  of  almost  everything  a  fast  young  man  ever  is  guilty 
of,  but  he  had  never  detected  him  in  a  falsehood,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  answer  him  now : 

"No,  not  exactly  lie,  though  I  don't  understand  why 
she  should  refuse  you.  If  I  know  anything  about  girls 
she  is  not  averse  to  you,  and  here  you  come  and  tell  me 
that  she  refused  you  flat.  There's  some  trick  some- 
where; something  I  do  not  understand.  Beatrice  likes 
you  well  enough  to  marry  you,  and  you  know  it.  Why 
then  did  she  refuse  you,  unless  you  made  a  bungle  of  the 
whole  thing,  and  showed  her  you  were  not  more  than 
half  in  earnest,  as  upon  my  soul  I  believe  you  are  not  ; 
but  you  shall  be.  I've  had  my  mind  on  that  marriage 
for  years,  and  I  will  not  easily  give  it  up.  Do  you  hear 
or  care  for  what  I  am  saying?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
growing  each  instant  louder  and  more  excited. 

"Yes,  father,"  Everard  answered  wearily,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  did  not  really  comprehend.  "I  hear, — 
I  care, — but  I  am  so  tired  to-night.  Let  me  off,  won't 
you,  till  another  time,  when  I  can  talk  with  you  better 
and  tell  you  all  I  feel." 

"Xo,  I  won't  let  you  off,"  the  judge  replied.  "I 
intend  to  know  why  you  are  so  indifferent  to  Bee.  Is  it, 
as  I  have  suspected,  that  yellow-haired  woman  ?  Because 
if  it  is,  by  the  lord  Harry,  you  will  be  sorry  !  She  shall 
never  come  here ;  never !  The  bold-faced,  vulgar 
thing  !" 

"Father  !"  and  Everard  roused  himself  at  last,  "you 
must  not  speak  so  of  Josephine.  I  will  not  listen  to  it." 

That  was  the  speech  which  fired  the  train,  and  the 
judge  grew  purple  with  rage  as  he  demanded  by  what 


124      THE    HOUSE    OF    CARDS    GOES    DOWN. 

right  his  sou  forbade  bim  to  speak  as  be  pleased  of  Jose- 
phine. 

"  What  is  she  to  you?"  he  asked,  and  with  white, 
quivering  lips  Everard  answered  back  : 

" She  is  my  wife!" 

The  words  were  spoken  almost  in  a  whisper,  but  they 
echoed  like  thunder  through  the  room,  and  seemed  to 
repeat  themselves  over  and  over  again  during  the  moment 
of  utter  silence  which  ensued.  Everard  had  told  his 
secret,  and  felt  better  already,  as  if  the  worst  was  over ; 
while  his  father  stood  motionless. and  dumb,  glaring  upon 
him  with  a  baleful  light  in  his  eyes,  which  boded  no 
good  to  the  sorely-presred  young  man,  who  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  all  about  it,"  he  said,  "  and  then 
you  may  kill  me  if  you  choose ;  it  does  not  matter 
much." 

"  Yes,  tell  me  ;"  his  father  said,  hoarsely  ;  and  with- 
out lifting  up  his  bowed  head,  or  raising  his  voice,  which 
was  strangely  sad  and  low,  Everard  told  his  story, — 
every  word  of  it,  even  to  Josephine's  parentage  and 
Rossie's  generous  conduct  in  his  behalf. 

Of  Josephine  herself  he  said  as  little  as  possible,  and 
did  not  by  the  slightest  word  hint  at  his  growing  aver- 
sion for  her.  That  would  not  help  matters  now.  She 
was  his  wife,  and  he  called  her  so  two  or  three  times,  and 
did  not  (=63  how  at  the  mention  of  that  name  his  father 
ground  his  teeth  together  and  clutched  at  his  cravat  as 
if  to  tear  it  off,  and  give  himself  more  room  to  breathe. 

"  I  have  told  you  everything  now,  father,"  Everard 
said  in  conclusion,  "everything  there  is  to  tell,  except 
that  since  that  night  I  have  not  committed  a  single  act 
of  which  I  am  not  willing  you  should  know.  I  have 
tried  to  do  my  best,  as  I  promised  mother  I  would  the 
last  time  I  talked  with  her.  She  believed  in  me  then  ; 
she  would  forgive  me  if  she  were  here,  and  for  her  sake 
I  ask  you  to  forgive  me  too.  I  am  so  sorry, — sorrier 
than  you  can  possibly  be.  Will  you  forgive  me  for 
mother's  sake  ?" 

He  had  made  his  plea  and  waited  for  the  answer. 
He  knew  how  ungovernable  his  father's  temper  \v;is  at 
times,  but  it  was  so  long  since  he  had  met  it  in  its  worst 
form  that  he  was  wholly  unprepared  for  the  terrible 


THE    HOUSE    OF    CARDS     GOES    DOWN.      125 

burst  of  passion  to  which  his  father  gave  vent.  He  had 
listened  quietly  to  his  son's  story,  without  comment  or 
interruption,  but  his  anger  had  grown  stronger  and  fiercer 
with  each  detail,  so  that  even  the  mention  of  his  dead 
wife  had  no  power  to  move  him  now.  On  the  contrary, 
it  exasperated  him  the  more,  and,  at  Everard's  appeal 
for  pardon,  the  storm  burst  and  he  began  in  a  voice  of 
such  withering  scorn  and  contempt  that  Everard  looked 
wonderingly  at  the  old  man,  who  shook  with  rage  and 
whose  face  was  livid  in  spots.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
hoped  for  from  him,  and  Everard  bowed  his  head  again, 
while  the  tempest  raged  on. 

"  Forgive  you  for  your  mother's  sake !  Dastard  ! 
How  dare  you  cringe  and  creep  behind  her  name,  when 
you  have  disgraced  her  in  her  coffin  ?  Forgive  you  ? 
Never  !  So  long  as  I  have  sense  and  reason  left !" 

This  was  the  preface  to  what  followed,  for,  taking 
up  the  case  as  a  lawyer  takes  up  the  case  of  the  criminal 
whom  it  is  his  duty  to  prosecute,  the  judge  went 
through  it  step  by  step,  speaking  first  of  the  puling 
weakness  which  would  allow  one  to  fall  into  the  damna- 
ble trap  set  for  him  by  a  crafty,  designing  woman,  then 
of  the  base  hypocrisy,  the  living  lie  of  years,  the  sys- 
tematic deception,  the  mean  cowardice,  the  sneaking, 
contemptible  spirit  which  would  even  take  money  from 
a  child  to  squander  on  that  yellow-haired  Jezebel,  the 
insult  to  Beatrice,  asking  her  to  marry  him  just  for  a 
farce,  and  lastly,  the  audacity  in  thinking  such  enormities 
could  bo  forgiven. 

Everard  did  not  think  they  could  by  the  time  his  case 
was  summed  up.  He  did  not  think  of  much  of  anything, 
he  was  so  benumbed  and  bewildered,  and  his  father's 
voice  sounded  like  some  great  roaring  river  very  far 
away. 

"  Forgive  you  !"  it  said  again,  with  all  the  concen- 
trated bitterness  of  hatred.  "  Forgive  you  !  Never,  so 
long  as  I  live,  will  I  forgive  or  own  you  for  my  son,  or 
in  any  way  recognize  that  jade  as  your  wife.  From  this 
time  on  you  are  none  of  mine.  I  disown  you.  I  cast 
you  off,  forever.  You  may  sleep  here  to-night,  but  in 
the  morning  you  leave,  and  go  back  to  your  darling  and 
her  high-born  family,  but  you'll  never  cross  my  threshold 


126      THE    HOUSE    OF    CARDS     GOES    DOWN. 


again  while  I  am  living.  Do  you  hear,  or  are  you  a 
stone,  a  clod,  that  you  sit  there  so  quietly  ?" 

His  son's  demeanor  exasperated  him,  and  he  would 
have  been  better  pleased  had  Everard  fought  him  inch 
by  inch,  and  given  him  back  scorn  for  scorn.  But  this 
Everard  could  not  do  ;  he  was  too  completely  crushed  to 
offer  a  word  in  his  own  defense.  Only  at  the  last,  when 
he  heard  himself  disowned,  he  roused  and  said,  "  Do  you 
mean  it,  father?  Mean  to  turn  me  from  your  house  ?" 

"  Mean  it  ?  Yes  ;  don't  you  understand  plain  lan- 
guage when  you  hear  it?"  thundered  the  judge. 

'*  Yes,  father,  I  understand,  and  I  will  go,"  Everard 
said,  rising  slowly,  as  if  it  were  painful  to  move  ;  then, 
half  staggering  to  the  door,  he  stopped  a  moment  and 
added,  "  I  deserve  a  great  deal,  father,  but  not  all  you 
have  given  me.  You  have  been  too  hard  with  me,  and 
you  will  be  sorry  for  it  some  day.  Good-by  ;  I  am 
going." 

"  Go,  then,  and  never  come  back,"  came  like  a  savage 
growl  from  the  infuriated  man,  and  those  were  the  last 
words  which-  ever  passed  between  the  father  and  the  son. 

"  Good-by,  father,  I  am  going." 

"  Go,  then,  and  never  come  back." 

They  sounded  through  the  stillness  of  the  night,  and 
Everard  shivered,  as  he  went  through  the  long,  dark  hall 
and  up  the  stairs,  where  the  old  clock  was  striking  one, 
and  where  the  light  from  Rossie's  door  again  shone  into 
the  gloom,  and  Rossie's  face  looked  out,  pale  and  scared 
this  time,  for  she  had  heard  the  judge's  angry  voice,  and 
knew  a  dreadful  battle  was  in  progress.  So  she  wrapped 
a  shawl  about  her  and  waited  till  it  was  over,  and  she 
heard  Everard  coming  up  the  stairs.  Then  she  went  to 
him,  for  something  told  the  motherly  child  that  he  was 
in  need  of  comfort  and  sympathy,  and  such  crumbs  as 
she  could  give  she  would.  But  she  was  not  prepared  for 
the  cowed,  humiliated  look  of  utter  hopelessness,  and  not 
knowing  what  she  was  doing,  she  drew  him  into  her 
room,  and  making  him  sit  down,  she  took  his  icy  hands 
and  rubbed  and  chafed  them,  while  she  said,  "What  is 
it,  Mr.  Everard  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it.  I  heard  your 
father's  voice  so  loud  and  angry  that  it  frightened  me, 
and  I  sat  up  to  wait  for  you  and  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am. 
What  is  it  ?" 


THE    HOUSE    OF    CARDS    GOES    DOWN.      127 

Her  sympathy  was  very  sweet  to  Everard,  and 
touched  him  so  closely  that  for  a  moment  he  was  unable 
to  speak  ;  then  he  said  : 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Rossie,  what  it  is  ;  only  that  it  is 
something  which  dates  far  back,  before  mother  died, 
and  father  has  just  found  it  out,  and  has  turned  me  from 
his  door." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Everard,  you  must  have  misunderstood 
him  ;  he  did  not  mean  that.  You  are  mistaken,"  Rossie 
cried,  in  great  distress  ;  and  Everard  replied  : 

"  When  a  man  calls  his  son  a  sneak,  a  coward,  a  clod, 
a  villain,  a  scoundrel,  a  scamp,  a  hypocrite,  a  liar,  there 
can  be  no  misunderstanding  the  language,  or  what  it 
means;  and  father  called  me  all  these  names,  and  more, 
and  said  things  I  never  can  forget.  I  deserve  a  great 
deal,  but  not  all  this.  Oh,  if  I  had  died  years  and  years 
ago  !" 

His  chin  quivered  and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  talked, 
while  Rossie's  tears  flowed  like  rain  as  she  stood,  not 
holding  his  hands  now,  but  gently  stroking  the  hair  of 
the  head  bowed  down  so  low  with  its  load  of  grief  and 
shame. 

"  Mr.  Everard,"  she  said  at  last,  "  has  this  trouble 
anything  to  do  with  Joe  Fleming  ?" 

"  Yes,  everything!"  Everard  answered,  bitterly;  and 
Rossie  continued: 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  !  I  hoped  you  had  broken  with 
him  forever.  You  have  been  so  good  and  nice,  and  kept 
that  pledge  so  beautifully!  How  could  you  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  Joe  ?" 

"I  tell  you  it  dates  far  back, — a  hundred  years  ago, 
it  seems  to  me.  I  got  into  an  awful  scrape,  from  which 
I  cannot  extricate  myself,"  Everard  said,  and  Rossie 
continued: 

"  I  see,  you  did  something  which  Joe  knows  about, 
and  so  has  you  in  his  power,  and  you  have  just  told  your 
father." 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,  very  nearly,"  Everard  replied. 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  it  is.  I  'most  know  I 
could  help  you;  at  all  events,  I  could  speak  to  your 
father;  he  is  always  kind  to  me,  and  will  listen  to  rea- 
son, I  think,"  Rossie  said;  and  then  Everard  looked  up 
quickly,  and  spoke  decidedly: 


123      THE    HOUSE    OF    CARDS     GOES    DOWN. 

"  Rossie,  you  must  not  speak  to  father  for  me.  I 
will  not  have  it.  He  has  taunted  me  enough  with  *  hang- 
ing on  to  the  apron-strings  of  a  little  girl;'  that's  what 
he  said,  referring  to  my  having  taken  money  from  you  ; 
for  you  see  I  told  him  everything,  even  to  the  hair  you 
sold,  and  I  think  that  made  him  more  furious  than  all  the 
rest.  It  was  a  dastardly  thing  in  me,  and  there  must  be 
no  repetition.  You  must  not  interfere  by  so  much  as  a 
word;  remember  that  when  I  am  gone,  for  I  am  going  to 
Cincinnati  first,  and  if  I  find  nothing  to  do  there,  I  shall 
go  on  to  Louisville,  and  possibly  farther  South.  I  shall 
write  to  you  as  soon  as  I  know  what  I  am  going  to  do, — 
perhaps  before;  and,  Rossie,  among  all  the  pleasant 
memories  of  my  old  home,  the  very  sweetest  will  be  the 
memory  of  the  little  girl  who  always  in  my  sorest  need 
lightened,  if  she  could  not  remove,  the  burden.  Hush, 
Rossie;  don't  cry  so  for  me.  I  am  not  worth  it,"  he 
said,  as  she  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping. 

He  had  risen  now  and  was  bending  over  her  and 
holding  her  hands  in  his,  and  when  he  saw  her  sobbing 
thus  he  wound  his  arm  around  her,  and  drawing  her 
close  to  him,  tried  to  quiet  and  comfort  her. 

"Don't,  Rossie,  don't ;  you  unman  me  entirely,  to  see 
you  give  way  so  ;  I'd  rather  remember  you  as  the  brave 
little  woman  who  always  controlled  herself." 

Down  over  Rossie's  shoulders  her  unbound  hair  was 
falling,  and  lifting  up  one  of  the  wavy  tresses.  Everard 
continued,  "  I  shall  be  gone  in  the  morning,  Rossie,  and 
I  want  to  take  with  me  a  lock  of  this  hair.  It  will  be  a 
constant  reminder  of  the  sacrifice  you  once  made  for  me, 
and  keep  me  from  temptation.  May  I  have  it,  Rossie  ?" 

She  would  have  given  him  her  head  had  he  asked  for 
it,  and  the  lock  was  soon  severed  from  the  rest  and  laid 
in  his  hand.  Holding  it  to  the  light  he  said,  "  Look 
how  long,  and  bright,  and  even  it  is.  You  have  beau- 
tiful hair,  Rossie." 

He  meant  to  divert  her  mind,  but  her  heart  was  very 
sore,  and  her  face  tear-stained  and  wet  as  she  tied  the 
hair  with  a  bit  of  ribbon,  and  placing  it  in  a  paper, 
handed  it  to  him. 

"Thank  you,  Rossie,"  he  said  ;  "no  man  ever  had  a 
dearer  sister  than  I,  and  if  I  am  ever  anything,  it  will  be 
wholly  owing  to  your  influence  and  Bee's." 


THE    NEXT     DAT.  129 

At  the  mention  of  Bee's  name  Rossie  looked  quickly 
up,  struck  with  a  sudden  idea. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Everard,"  she  said,  "how  can  you  go  away 
and  leave  Miss  Beatrice  ?  and  I  thought  you  and  she 
would  some  time  be  married,  and  we  should  all  be  so 
happy." 

"  That  can  never  be,"  Everard  replied  ;  "  Beatrice 
will  not  have  me  ;  I  cannot  have  her.  We  settled  that 
to-night,  but  are  the  best  of  friends,  and  I  esteem  her  as 
one  of  the  noblest  girls  I  ever  knew.  You  may  tell  her 
so  if  she  ever  speaks  of  me  after  I  am  gone  ;  tell  her 
that  with  you  she  represents  to  me  all  that  is  purest  and 
sweetest  in  womanhood  ;  and  now,  Rossie,  I  must  say 
good-by.  It  is  almost  two  o'clock." 

He  took  her  upturned  face  between  both  his  hands 
and  held  it  a  moment,  while  he  looked  earnestly  into  the 
clear,  bright  eyes  which  met  his  without  a  shadow  of 
consciousness,  except  the  consciousness  that  he  was  going 
away,  and  this  was  his  farewell.  Then  he  stooped  and 
kissed  her  forehead  and  said,  "  God  bless  you,  Rosamond; 
be  a  daughter  to  my  father.  You  are  all  the  child  he 
has  now." 

An  hour  later  and  Rosamond  had  cried  herself  to 
sleep,  amd  did  not  hear  Everard's  cautious  footsteps,  as, 
with  his  satchel  in  his  hand,  he  stole  down  the  stairs  and 
out  to  the  carriage-house,  where  he  passed  the  few  re- 
maining hours  of  the  November  night,  feeling  that  he 
was  indeed  an  outcast  and  a  wanderer. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE  NEXT  DAY. 

|OW   much    or   how   soundly  the   judge  slept 
after  that  stormy  interview  with  his  son,  or 
whether  there  came  to  him  any  twinges  of 
regret  for  all  the  bitter  things  he   had  said, 
none  ever  knew.     He   prided   himself  upon 
seldom  changing  his  mind,  when   once  it  was  made  up  ; 
and  so,  perhaps,  his  temper  was  still  at  a  boiling  pitch 
when  promptly  at  his  usual  hour  he  descended  to  the  break- 
6* 


130  THE     NEXT    DAY. 

fast-room,  arid  bade  John  bring  in  the  coffee  and  eggs. 
His  face  was  very  red,  and  his  eyes  were  blood-shot  and 
watery,  and  his  hands,  which  held  the  morning  paper, 
trembled  so,  that  John  glanced  curiously  at  him  as  he 
brought  in  the  breakfast  and  arranged  it  upon  the  table. 

"  Where's  Miss  Rosamond  and  my  son  ?  Are  they 
not  ready  ?"  the  judge  asked  a  little  irritably,  for  he 
required  every  one  to  be  prompt  where  he  was  concerned. 

His  questions  were  partly  answered  by  the  appearance 
of  Rosamond,  who  looked  as  fresh  and  bright  as  usual, 
as  she  took  her  seat  at  the  table  and  began  to  pour  the 
coffee.  She  had  stept  soundly,  and  did  not  feel  the 
effects  of  last  night's  excitement,  except  in  a  little  tremor 
of  fear  and  anxiety  with  regard  to  Everard.  Whatever 
happened,  she  was  not  to  interfere  or  plead  for  him.  He 
had  said  so  expressly,  and  she  must  obey,  and  as  she 
looked  furtively  at  the  inflamed  face  opposite  her,  she 
felt  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  great  fear  of  the  man, 
who,  as  Everard  did  not  appear,  said  angrily,  "  Go  to  my 
son's  room  and  see  what  is  keeping  him  ;  and  tell  him  I 
sent  you,"  he  added,  as  if  that  message  would  necessarily 
hasten  the  laggard  young  man. 

Then  Rossie  dropped  her  spoon  and  sat  shaking  in 
her  chair  until  the  servant  came  swiftly  back,  with 
wonder  and  alarm  upon  his  face,  saying  that  his  young 
master  was  not  there  and  his  bed  had  not  been  slept  in. 

"  Not  there  !  and  his  bed  not  slept  in  !  What  does 
it  mean  ?  Where  is  he,  then  ?"  the  judge  asked,  in  a 
voice  that  made  Rossie  tremble  even  more  than  the  an- 
nouncement that  Everard  was  gone. 

"  I  duniK),  mass'r,  where  he  can  be.  I  know  he's  not 
thar,  an'  I  disremember  seen'  him  since  he  went  out  last 
night  after  dinner.  Maybe  he  didn't  come  back." 

"  Blockhead,  he  did  come  back,  and  he's  here  now, 
most  likely.  I'll  see  for  myself,"  said  the  judge,  as  he 
started  for  his  son's  room,  followed  by  Rossie  and  John, 
the  latter  of  whom  said  : 

"Very  well,  mass'r,  you  see  for  yourself;  he  gone 
sure,  an'  left  the  bed  as  Axie  fix  it  for  him,  an'  Jemme 
see,  yes,  shoo  nuff,  his  big  satchel  gone  wicl  him,  and  his 
odder  suit.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he's  gone  away,"  the 
loquacious  negro  continued,  as  he  investigated  the  closet 
and  room. 


THE     NEXT    DAT.  131 

"  You  black  hound,"  roared  the  infuriated  judge, 
"  why  should  he  run  away  ?  What  had  he  to  run  from  ? 
Leave  the  chamber  instantly,  before  I  kick  you  down 
stairs,  for  giving  your  opinion." 

"  Yes,  mass'r,  I's  gwine,"  was  John's  reply  as  he  dis- 
appeared from  the  scene,  leaving  the  judge  and  Rossie 
alone. 

The  latter  was  white  as  a  sheet,  and  leaned  against 
the  mantel,  for  she  knew  now  that  Everard  was  really 
gone.  Her  paleness  and  agitation  escaped  the  judge's 
attention,  for  just  then  he  picked  up  from  the  dressing- 
table  the  few  lines  that  Everard  had  left  for  him,  and 
which  read  as  follows  : 

"  FATHER: — You  have  always  said  your  yea  was  yea, 
and  your  nay  nay,  and  I  know  you  meant  it  when  you 
bade  me  leave  your  house  and  never  come  back  again  ; 
so  I  have  taken  you  at  your  word,  and  when  you  read 
this  I  shall  be  many  miles  away  from  Rothsay.  After 
what  you  said  to  me  I  cannot  even  pass  the  night  under 
this  roof,  and  shall  stay  in  the  carriage-house  until  time 
to  take  the  train.  I  am  sorry  for  all  that  has  passed, 
very  sorry,  and  wish  I  could  "undo  my  part  of  it,  but 
cannot,  and  so  it  is  better  for  me  to  go.  Good-by, 
father.  Your  son,  EVERARD." 

Notwithstanding  the  judge's  favorite  assertion  that 
his  vea  was  yea,  and  his  nay  nay,  it  is  very  possible  that 
if  3  -verard  had  not  taken  him  so  promptly  at  his  word, 
— if  he  had  staid  and  gone  to  breakfast  as  usual  and 
abo»  t  his  daily  avocations,  his  father  would  have  cooled 
do\\  n  gradually,  and  come  in  time  to  look  the  matter 
over  soberly  and  make  the  best  of  it.  But  Everard  had 
gone,  and  the  irascible  old  man  broke  forth  afresh  into 
invectives  against  him,  denouncing  him  as  a  dog,  to 
sleep  in  carriage-houses,  and  then  run  away  as  if  there 
was  anything  to  run  from. 

"  I'll  never  forgive  him,"  he  said  to  Rossie,  who  had 
stood  silently  by,  appalled  at  the  storm  of  passion  such 
as  she  had  never  seen  before,  until  at  last,  forgetful  of 
Everard's  charge  not  to  interfere,  she  roused  in  his  de- 
fense. 

"Yes,  you  will  forgive  him,"  she  said.     "You  must. 


132  THE     NEXT    DAY. 

He  is  your  son,  and  though  I  don't  know  what  he  has 
done  to  make  you  so  angry,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  sufficient 
for  you  to  treat  him  so,  and  you  will  send  for  him  to 
come  back.  I  know  where  he's  gone.  He  came  and  told 
me  he  was  going,  though  I  did  not  think  it  would  be  till 
this  morning,  when  I  hoped  you  might  make  it  up." 

"  And  so  he  asked  you  to  intercede  for  him  as  you 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  doing,  and  maybe  told  you  the 
nice  thing  he  had  done-?"  the  judge  said,  forgetting  her 
assertion  that  she  did  not  know. 

"  No,  sir.  Oh,  no,"  Rossie  cried.  "  He  did  not  ask 
me  to  intercede  ;  he  said,  on  the  contrary,  that  I  was  on 
no  account  to  mention  him,  and  he  did  not  tell  me  what 
it  was  about,  except  that  it  happened  long  ago  ;  and  he 
is  so  sorry  and  has  tried  to  be  good  since.  You 
know  he  was  trying,  Judge  Forrest,  and  you  will  forgive 
him,  won't  you  ?" 

"  By  the  lord  Harry,  no  !  and  you  would  not  ask  it  if 
you  knew  the  disgrace  he  has  brought  upon  me.  I'll  fix 
him  !"  was  the  judge's  angry  reply,  as  he  broke  away 
from  her,  and  striding  down  the  stairs  took  his  hat 
from  the  hall-stand,  and  hurried  to  his  office. 

Great  was  the  consternation  among  the  servants  in 
the  Forrest  household  when  it  was  known  that  Mr. 
Everard  had  left  the  house,  and  gone  no  one  knew 
whither,  and  many  were  the  whispered  surmises  as  to 
the  cause  of  his  going. 

"  Some  row  between  him  and  old  mass'r,"  John  said, 
and  his  solution  of  the  mystery  was  taken  as  the  correct 
one,  the  negroes  all  siding  with  Mr.  Everard,  who  was 
very  popular  with  them. 

Old  Axie,  the  cook,  ventured  to  question  Rosamond  a 
little  ;  but  Rossie  kept  her  own  counsel,  and,  returning 
to  her  room,  was  crying  herself  sick,  when  a  message 
came  that  Beatrice  was  asking  for  her.  Immediately 
after  reading  Everard's  note,  Beatrice  had  driven  over 
to  the  Forrest  House,  where  she  was  admitted  at  once  to 
Rossie's  room,  and  heard  all  that  Rossie  knew  of  the 
events  of  the  previous  night. 

"Oh,  Miss  Beatrice,"  Rossio  said,  "why  did  you  re- 
fuse him  ?  He  told  me  about  it,  and  I  'most  know  if 
you  had  said  yes  it  would  all  have  been  so  different." 

Bee's  face  was  scarlet  as  she  replied  : 


THE     NEXT    DAT.  133 

"  He  told  you  that,  and  nothing  more  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  said  something  about  wouldn't  and  couldn't, 
— I  don't  know  what,  for  it  is  all  confused  to  me.  I 
thought  you  liked  him  and  he  liked  you.  He  said  he 
did,  and  he  bade  me  tell  you  that  you  were  the  purest 
and  sweetest  woman  in  the  world,  and  the  best,  or  some- 
thing like  that,  and  I  think  you  ought  to  marry  him,  I 
do,"  and  Rossie  looked  reproachfully  at  poor  Bee,  who 
was  very  pale,  and  whose  voice  was  sad  and  low  as  she 
said  : 

"  Rossie,  I  could  not  marry  Everard  if  I  wished  to. 
There  is  an  insuperable  barrier,  and  if  he  did  not  ex- 
plain, I  must  not.  Did  he  give  you  any  hint  as  to  the 
cause  of  his  quarrel  with  his  father  ?" 

"  No,"  Rossie  replied,  "  only  that  it  dated  far  back, 
and  had  something  to  do  with  Joe  Fleming.  I  wish 
Joe  was  in  Guinea  ;  he  is  always  doing  harm  to  Mr. 
Everard." 

Beatrice  could  not  forbear  a  smile  at  this  ludicrous 
mistake  of  sex,  and  for  a  moment  was  tempted  to  tell 
the  girl  the  truth  ;  but  remembering  that  Everard  had 
said  Rossie  was  not  to  know,  she  held  her  peace,  and 
Rossie  was  left  in  ignorance  of  Joe's  real  identity. 

After  leaving  the  Forrest  House  Beatrice  drove  past 
the  judge's  office,  with  a  faint  hope  that  she  might  see 
him,  and  perhaps  be  of  some  service  to  Everard  by 
speaking  for  him,  should  the  opportunity  occur.  It  was 
years  since  the  judge,  who  once  stood  high  in  his  profes- 
sion, had  done  much  business,  and  his  office  was  occupied 
by  Mr.  Russell,  his  legal  adviser  ;  but  he  was  frequently 
there,  and  as  Bee  drove  down  the  street  she  saw  him 
standing  outside  the  door,  glancing  up  and  down  as  if 
looking  for  some  one.  Something  in  his  attitude  or 
manner  induced  her  to  rein  her  ponies  up  to  the  curb- 
stone, where  she  could  speak  to  him. 

"  Good  morning,  Judge  Forrest,"  she  said,  as  natur- 
ally as  if  in  her  heart  she  did  not  think  him  a  monster  of 
cruelty.  "  Were  you  waiting  for  me  ?" 

"  No,  not  exactly,"  and  a  faint  smile  appeared  on  the 
dark  face.  "  I  was  looking  for  Parker,  but  maybe  you'll 
do  as  well  if  you  choose  to  step  in  and  witness  my  will." 

"  Your  will !"  Bee  replied,  and  all  the  blood  in  her 
body  seemed  surging  into  her  face  as  sUe  felt  intuitively 


134  THE     NEXT    DAY. 

that  a  will  made  just  now  would  be  disastrous  to  Ever- 
ard.  "  Have  you  never  made  your  will  before  ?"  she 
asked,  and  he  replied  : 

"Never  ;  but  it's  high  time  I  did.  Yes,  high  time  !" 
and  he  shook  his  head  defiantly  at  something  invisible. 
"  Can  you  go  iii  as  well  as  not  ?"  he  continued  ;  and, 
summoning  all  her  courage  for  the  conflict,  Beatrice  said 
to  him  : 

"  I  am  willing  to  go  in,  but  not  to  witness  any  will 
which  is  in  any  way  adverse  to  Everard." 

"  Who  said  it  was  adverse  to  him,  the  dog?  Do  you 
know  how  he  has  disgraced  me  ?  but  yes,  you  do  ;  he 
said  he  told  you  all,  and  insulted  you  with  an  offer,  and 
now  he  has  run  away  as  a  crowning  feat.  If  you  can 
forgive  him,  I  can't ;"  and  the  judge  trembled  from  head 
to  foot  as  he  talked  of  his  son  to  Beatrice,  who  came 
bravely  to  the  rescue,  and  standing  nobly  for  Everard, 
tried  to  bring  his  father  to  reason,  and  make  him  say  he 
wTould  forgive  his  son  and  endure  the  wife  because  she 
was  his  wife. 

But  she  might  as  well  have  given  her  words  to  the 
winds,  for  any  effect  they  had.  The  judge  was  past  all 
reason,  and  only  grew  more  and  more  angry  as  he  talked 
of  the  disgrace  which  Everard's  marriage  had  brought 
upon  his  name.  Finding  that  what  she  naid  was  of  no 
avail  in  the  judge's  present  mood,  Beatrice  bade  him 
good  morning  and  drove  away,  resolving  to  see  him 
again  as  soon  as  his  temper  had  cooled,  and  try  what  she 
could  do  by  way  of  a  reconciliation. 

The  next  morning  breakfast  was  much  later  than 
usual  at  Elm  Park,  for  Beatrice  had  slept  but  little,  and 
she  was  still  in  bed  when  her  maid  brought  a  message  to 
her  from  Rosamond  to  the  effect  that  she  must  come  at 
once  to  the  Forrest  House,  as  the  judge  had  been  smitten 
suddenly  with  apoplexy,  and  was  lying  in  a  half  uncon- 
scious condition,  nearly  resembling  death.  Terrified 
beyond  measure,  Beatrice  dressed  herself  hurriedly,  and 
was  soon  on  her  way  to  the  house,  where  she  found  mat- 
ters even  worse  than  she  feared. 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  135 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
THE  SHADOW   OF  DEATH. 

REAKFAST  at  the  Forrest  House  had  been 
late  that  morning,  for  the  judge,  who  was 
usually  so  prompt,  did  not  make  his  appear- 
ance, and  Rosamond  waited  for  him  until  the 
clock  struck  eight.  Then,  as  the  minute-hand 
crept  on  and  he  still  did  not  come  down,  she  went  to  the 
door  of  his  room  and  knocked,  but  there,  came  no  answer, 
though  she  thought  she  heard  a  faint  sound  like  the  moan 
of  some  one  in  pain.  Knocking  still  louder,  with  her 
ear  to  the  keyhole,  she  called,  "  Judge  Forrest,  are  you 
awake  ?  Do  you  hear  me  ?  Do  you  know  how  late  it 
is?" 

This  time  there  was  an  effort  to  reply,  and  without 
waiting  for  anything  further,  Rosamond  went  unhesitat- 
ingly into  the  room.  The  shutters  were  closed  and  the 
heavy  curtains  drawn,  but  even  in  the  darkness  Rossie 
could  discern  the  white,  unnatural  face  upon  the  pillow, 
and  the  eyes  which  met  hers  so  appealingly  as  the  judge 
tried  in  vain  to  speak,  for  the  blue  lips  gave  forth  only 
an  unmeaning  sound,  which  might  have  meant  anything. 
There  was  a  loud  call  for  help,  and  in  a  moment  the 
room  was  full  of  the  terrified  servants,  who  ran  over  and 
against  each  other  in  their  frantic  haste  to  execute  Miss 
Rossie's  orders,  given  so  rapidly. 

"  Open  the  shutters  and  windows  wide  and  let  in  the 
air,  and  bring  some  camphor,  and  hartshorn,  and  ice- 
water,  quick,  and  somebody  go  for  the  doctor  and  Miss 
Belknap  as  soon  as  they  can,  and  don't  make  such  a 
noise  with  your  crying,  it's  only  a, — a, — a  fit  of  some 
kind  ;  he  will  soon  be  better,"  Rossie  said,  with  a  forced 
calmness,  as  she  bent  over  the  helpless  man  and  rubbed 
and  chafed  the  hands  which,  the  moment  she  let  go  of 
them,  fell  with  a  thud  upon  the  bed-clothes,  where  they 
lay  helpless,  nerveless,  dead,  as  it  were,  to  all  action  or 
feeling  ;  and  while  she  rubbed  and  worked  over  him  and 
asked  him  questions  he  could  not  answer,  his  eyes  fol- 
lowed her  constantly,  as  if  with  some  wish  the  dumb 
lips  could  not  express. 


136  THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH. 

The  doctor  was  soon  there,  but  a  glance  at  his  patient 
convinced  him  that  his  services  were  of  no  avail,  except 
to  make  the  sufferer  a  little  more  comfortable.  It  was 
partly  apoplexy,  partly  paralysis,  induced  by  some  great 
excitement  or  over-work,  he  said  to  Rosamond,  whom  he 
questioned  closely  as  to  the  judge's  appearance  the  pre- 
vious night.  He  had  come  home  about  four  o'clock, 
Rosamond  said,  and  eaten  a  very  hearty  dinner,  and 
drank  more  wine  than  usual.  She  noticed,  too,  that  his 
face  was  very  red,  and  that  he  smoked  a  long  time  after 
dinner  before  he  came  into  the  parlor  where  she  was 
getting  her  lessons.  He  had  asked  her  to  play  some  old- 
fashioned  tunes,  which  he  liked  best,  he  said,  because 
they  took  him  back  to  the  time  when  he  was  a  boy  at 
home  in  Carolina.  Then  he  told  her  of  his  home  and  his 
mother,  and  talked  of  his  dead  wife,  and  said  he  hoped 
Forrest  House  would  one  day  have  a  mistress  as  sweet 
and  good  as  she  was.  When  at  last  he  said  good-night, 
he  kissed  her  forehead  and  said,  "My  child  ;  you  are  all 
I  have  left  me  now.  Heaven  bless  you  !"  then  he  went 
up  stairs,  and  Rossie  knew  nothing  more  till  she  found 
him  in  the  morning. 

There  was  no  hope  ;  it  was  merely  a  matter  of  a  few 
days  at  most,  the  doctor  said  ;  and  then  he  asked  where 
Everard  was,  saying,  he  ought  to  be  sent  for.  This 
was  to  Beatrice  and  Rossie  both,  after  the  former  had 
arrived  and  before  she  had  seen  the  judge.  The  two 
girls  exchanged  glances,  and  Beatrice  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"  Everard  left  home  for  Cincinnati  early  yesterday 
morning,"  she  said,  "  but  I  know  his  address,  and  will 
telegraph  at  once." 

"  Very  well,"  the  doctor  replied,  looking  curiously  at 
her,  for  he  had  heard  a  flying  rumor  of  something  wrong 
at  the  Forrest  House,  which  had  driven  the  heir  away. 

Accordingly,  a  telegram  was  sent  to  the  Spencer 
House,  Cincinnati,  to  the  effect  that  Judge  Forrest  was 
dangerously  ill,  and  Everard  must  come  immediately. 

"  Not  here,  and  has  not  been  here,"  was  the  answer 
telegraphed  back  ;  and  then  a  message  went  to  the  Gait 
House,  in  Louisville,  where  Everard  always  stopped,  but 
that  too  elicited  the  answer  "  Not  here." 

Where  was  he,  then, — the  outcast   son, — when   his 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  137 

father  lay  dying,  with  that  white,  scared,  troubled  look 
upon  his  face,  and  that  vain  effort  to  speak  and  let  his 
wishes  be  known.  Dead  his  body  was  already,  so  far  as 
power  to  move  was  concerned,  but  the  mind  was  appar- 
ently unimpaired,  and  expressed  itself  in  the  agonized 
expression  of  his  face,  and  the  entreating,  beseeching, 
pleading  look  of  the  dim  eyes  which  followed  Rosamond 
so  constantly  and  seemed  trying  to  communicate  writh  her. 

"  There  is  something  he'  wants,"  Rossie  said  to  Bea- 
trice, who  shared  her  vigils,  "  and  if  I  could  only  guess 
what  it  was  ;"  then,  suddenly  starting  up,  she  hurried  to 
his  side,  and  taking  the  poor,  palsied  hand  in  hers  rubbed 
and  caressed  it  pityingly,  and  smoothing  his  thin  hair, 
said  to  him,  "Judge  Forrest,  you  want  something,  and  I 
can't  guess  what  it  is,  unless, — unless — ;"  she  hesitated 
a  moment,  for  as  yet  Everard's  name  had  not  been  men- 
tioned in  his  hearing,  and  she  did  not  know  what  the 
effect  might  be  ;  but  the  eyes,  fastened  so  eagerly  upon 
her,  seemed  challenging  her  to  go  on,  and  at  last  she 
said, — "  unless  it  is  Mr.  Everard.  Has  it  anything  to  do 
with  him  ?" 

Oh,  how  hard  the  lips  tried  to  articulate,  but  they 
only  quivered  convulsively  and  gave  forth  a  little  moan- 
ing sound,  but  in  the  lighting  up  of  the  eager  eyes, 
which  grew  larger  and  brighter,  Rossie  thought  she  read 
the  answer,  and  emboldened  by  it  went  on  to  say  that 
they  had  telegraphed  to  Cincinnati  and  Louisville  both, 
and  had  that  morning  dispatched  a  message  to  Memphis 
and  New  Orleans. 

"  We  shall  surely  find  him  somewhere,"  she  contin- 
ued, "and  he  will  come  at  once.  I  do  not  think  he  was 
angry  with  you  when  he  went  away,  he  spoke  so  kindly 
of  you." 

Again  the  lips  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not  ;  only  the 
eyes  fastened  themselves  wistfully  upon  Rosamond,  fol- 
lowing her  wherever  she  went,  and  as  if  by  some  subtle 
magnetism  bringing  her  back  to  the  bedside,  where  she 
stayed  almost  constantly.  How  those  wide-open,  never- 
sleeping  eyes  haunted  and  troubled  her  and  made  her  at 
last  almost  afraid  to  stay  alone  with  them,  and  meet  their 
constant  gaze  !  Beatrice  had  been  taken  sick,  and  was 
unable  to  come  to  the  Forrest  House,  and  the  judge 
seemed  so  much  more  quiet  when  Rossie  was  sitting 


138  THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH. 

where  he  could  look  her  straight  in  the  face,  that  the 
man  hired  to  nurse  him  staid  mostly  in  the  adjoining 
room,  and  Rossie  kept  her  vigils  alone,  wearying  herself 
with  the  constantly  recurring  question  as  to  what  it  was 
the  sick  man  wished  to  tell  her.  Something,  sure,  and 
something  important,  too, — for  as  the  days  went  on,  and 
there  came  no  tidings  of  his  son,  the  eyes  grew  larger, 
and  seemed  at  times  about  to  leap  from* their  sockets,  to 
escape  the  horror  and  remorse  so  plainly  written  in  them. 
What  was  it  he  wished  to  say  ?  What  was  it  troubling 
the  old  man  so,  and  forcing  out  the  great  drops  of  sweat 
about  his  lips  and  forehead,  and  making  his  face  a  won- 
der to  look  upon  ?  Rosamond  felt  sometimes  as  if  she 
should  go  mad  herself  sitting  by  him,  with  those  wild 
eyes  watching  her  so  intently  that  if  she  moved  away  for 
a  moment  they  called  her  back  by  their  strange  power, 
and  compelled  her  not  only  to  sit  down  again  by  them, 
but  to  look  straight  into  their  depths,  where  the  unspeak- 
able trouble  lay  struggling  to  free  itself. 

"  Judge  Forrest,"  Rossie  said  to  him  the  fifth  day 
after  his  attack,  "  you  wish  to  tell  me  something  and  you 
cannot,  but  perhaps  I  can  guess  by  mentioning  ever  so 
many  things.  I'll  try,  and  if  you  mean  no  look  straight 
at  me  as  you  are  looking  now  ;  if  you  mean  yes,  turn 
your  eyes  to  the  window,  or  shut  them,  as  you  choose. 
Do  you  understand  me  ?" 

There  was  the  shadow  of  a  smile  on  the  wan  face, 
and  the  heavy  eyelids  closed,  in  token  that  he  did  com- 
prehend. Rossie  knew  the  judge  was  dying,  that  at  the 
most  only  a  few  days  more  were  his,  and  ought  not 
some  one  to  tell  him?  Was  it  right  to  let  that  fierce, 
turbulent  spirit  launch  out  upon  the  great  sea  of  eternity 
unwarned  ? 

"  Oh,  if  I  was  only  good,  I  might  help  him,  perhaps," 
she  thought  ;  "at  any  rate  he  ought  to  know,  and  maybe 
it  would  make  him  kinder  toward  Everard,"  for  it  was 
of  him  she  meant  to  speak,  through  this  novel  channel 
of  communication  between  herself  and  the  sick  man. 

She  must  have  the  father's  forgiveness  with  which  to 
comfort  the  son,  and  with  death  staring  him  in  the  face 
he  would  not  withhold  it  ;  so  she  said  to  him  : 

"  You  are  very  sick,  Judge  Forrest  ;  you  know  that, 
don't  you  ?" 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  139 

The  eyes  went  slowly  to  the  window  and  back  again, 
while  she  continued  in  her  plain,  outspoken  way  : 

"  Do  you  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  if  you  are  going 
to  die  ?" 

There  was  a  momentary  spasm  of  terror  on  the  face, 
a  look  such  as  a  child  has  when  shrinking  from  the  rod, 
and  then  the  eyes  went  to  the  window  and  back  to  Ros- 
sie, who  said  : 

"  We  hope  for  the  best,  but  the  case  is  very  bad,  and 
if  you  do  not  see  Mr.  Everard  again  shall  I  tell  him  you 
forgive  him,  and  were  sorry?" 

Quick  as  lightning  the  affirmative  answer  agreed 
upon  between  them  was  given,  and  in  great  delight 
Rossie  exclaimed,  "I  am  so  glad,  for  that  is  what  you 
have  tried  so  hard  to  tell  me.  You  wish  me  to  say  this 
to  Mr.  Everard,  and  I  will.  Is  that  all  ?" 

This  time  the  eyes  did  not  move,  but  looked  into  hers 
with  such  an  earnest,  beseeching  expression,  that  she 
knew  there  was  more  to  come.  Question  after  question 
followed,  but  the  eyes  never  left  her  face,  and  she  could 
see  the  pupils  dilate  and  the  color  deepen  in  them,  as 
they  seemed  burning  themselves  into  hers. 

'•  What  is  it  ?  What  can  it  be  ?"  she  asked,  despair- 
ingly. "  Does  it  concern  Mr.  Everard  in  any  way  ?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  eye  answer  quickly  given,  and  then 
Rosamond  guessed  everything  she  could  think  of,  the 
possible  and  impossible,  but  the  bright  eyes  kept  their 
steady  gaze  upon  her  until,  thinking  of  Joe  Fleming,  she 
asked,  "Is  somebody  else  concerned  in  it?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  response,  and  not  willing  to  introduce 
Joe  too  soon,  Rossie  said  :  "  Is  it  the  servants  ?" 

"No." 

"  Is  it  Beatrice  ?" 

"No." 

"Is  it  I?" 

She  had  no  thought  it  was,  and  was  astonished  when 
the  eyes  went  over  to  the  window  in  token  that  it  was. 

"Is  it  something  that  I  can  do?"  she  asked,  and  the 
eyes  seemed  to  leap  from  her  face  to  the  window. 

"And  shall  I  some  time  know  what  it  is  ?" 

Again  the  emphatic  "  yes,"  while  the  sweat  ran  like 
rain  down  his  face. 

"Then,   Judge   Forrest,"   and    Rossie    put   on   her 


140  THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH. 

wisest,  oldest  air,  "you  may  be  certain  I'll  do  it,  for  I 
promise  you  solemnly  that  if  anything  comes  to  light 
which  you  left  undone,  and  which  I  can  do,  I'll  do  it, 
sure." 

The  eyes  fairly  danced  now,  and  there  was  no  mis- 
taking the  joy  shining  in  them,  while  the  lips  moved  as 
if  in  blessing  upon  the  girl,  who  took  the  helpless  hand 
and  found  there  was  a  slight  pressure  of  the  limp,  life- 
less fingers  which  clung  to  hers. 

"Is  that  all?  have  you  made  me  understand?"  she 
asked,  and  he  answered  yes,  and  this  time  his  eyes  did 
not  come  back  to  her  face,  but  closed  wearily,  and  in  a 
few  moments  he  was  sleeping  quietly,  as  he  had  not  done 
before  since  his  illness. 

The  sleep  did  him  good,  and  he  was  far  less  restless 
after  he  awoke,  and  there  was  a  more  natural  look  in  his 
face,  but  nothing  could  prolong  his  life,  which  hung 
upon  a  thread,  and  might  go  out  at  any  time.  There 
was  no  more  following  Rossie  with  his  eyes,  though  he 
wanted  her  with  him  constantly,  and  seemed  happier 
when  she  was  sitting  by  him  and  ministering  to  his 
comfort.  Sometimes  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  deep  reverie, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  and  the  great  sweat-drops 
standing  thickly  on  his  face  from  the  intensity  of  his 
thought.  Of  what  was  he  thinking  as  he  lay  there  so 
helpless  ?  of  the  wasted  years  which  he  could  not  now  re- 
claim ?  of  sins  committed  and  unforgiven  in  the  days  which 
lay  behind  him  ?  of  the  wife  who  had  died  in  that  room 
and  on  that  very  bed  ?  of  the  son  to  whom  he  had  been 
so  harsh  and  unforgiving,  and  who  was  not  there  now  to 
cheer  the  dreary  sick-room  ?  And  did  the  unknown 
future  loom  up  darkly  before  him  and  fill  his  soul  with 
horror  and  dread  of  the  world  so  near  to  him  that  he 
could  almost  see  the  boundary  line  which  divides  it 
from  us  ? 

Once,  when  Rossie  said  to  him,  "  Shall  I  read  you 
something  from  the  Bible  ?"  he  answered  her  with  the 
affirmative  sign,  and  taking  her  own  little  Bible,  which 
her  mother  once  used,  she  opened  it  at  the  first  chapter 
of  Isaiah,  and  her  eyes  chancing  to  fall  upon  the  18th 
verse,  she  commenced  reading  in  a  clear,  sweet  voice, 
which  seemed  to  linger  over  the  words,  "Come  now  and 
let  us  reason  together,  saith  the  Lord  ;  though  your  sins 


THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH.  141 

be  as  scarlet  they  shall  be  white  as  snow  ;  though  they 
be  red  like  crimson,  they  shall  be  as  wool."  There  were 
spasms  of  pain  distorting  the  pinched  features  on  the 
pillow,  as  the  judge  listened  to  those  blessed  words  of 
promise  and  hope  for  even  the  worst  of  sinners.  Scarlet 
sins  and  crimson  sins  all  to  be  forgiven,  and  what  were 
his  but  these  ? 

"I  do  believe  he's  concerned  in  his  mind,"  Rossie 
thought,  as  she  looked  at  him  ;  and  bending  close  to  him 
she  whispered,  amid  her  own  tears,  "  Shall  I  say  the 
Lord's  Prayer  now  ?" 

She  knew  he  meant  yes,  and  kneeling  by  his  bedside, 
with  her  face  on  his  hands,  she  said  the  prayer  he 
could  not  join  in  audibly,  though  she  was  sure  he  prayed 
in  his  heart;  and  she  wished  so  much  for  some  one  older, 
and  wiser,  and  better  than  herself,  to  see  and  talk  to 
him. 

"Shall  I  send  for  the  minister  or  for  Mrs.  Baker?" 
she  asked,  feeling  in  that  hour  that  there  was  something 
in  the  Nazaritc  woman,  fanatical  though  she  might  be, 
which  would  answer  to  the  sore  need. 

But  the  judge  wished  neither  the  clergyman  nor  Mrs. 
Baker,  then;  he  would  rather  that  pure  young  girl  should 
read  to  and  pray  with  him,  and  he  made  her  understand 
it,  and  every  day  from  that  time  on  until  the  end  came, 
she  sat  by  him  and  read,  and  said  the  simple  prayers  of 
her  childhood,  and  his  as  well, — prayers  which  took  him 
back  to  his  boyhood  and  his  mother's  knee,  and  made 
him  sob  sometimes  like  a  little  child,  as  he  tried  so  often 
to  repeat  the  one  word  "forgive."  Gradually  there 
came  a  more  peaceful  expression  upon  his  face;  his  eyes 
lost  that  look  of  terror  and  dread,  and  the  muscles  about 
his  mouth  ceased  to  twitch  so  painfully,  but  of  the 
change  within, — if  real  change  there  had  been, — he  could 
not  speak;  that  power  was  gone  forever,  and  he  lay, 
dead  in  limb  as  a  stone,  waiting  for  the  end. 

Once  Rossie  said  to  him,  "  Do  you  feel  better,  Judge 
Forrest,  about  dying.  I  mean,  are  you  afraid  now  ?" 

He  looked  her  steadily  in  the  face  and  she  was  sure 
his  quivering  lips  said  no  to  her  last  question.  That  was 
the  day  he  died,  and  the  day  when  news  was  received 
from  Evorard.  He  had  returned  to  Louisville  from  a 
journey  to  Alabama,  had  found  the  telegrams,  and  was 


142  THE     JUDGE'S     WILL. 

hastening  home  as  fast  as  possible.  Beatrice  was  better, 
and  able  to  be  again  at  the  Forrest  House,  but  it  was 
Rossie  who  took  to  the  dying  man  the  message  from  his 
son.  He  was  lying  perfectly  quiet,  every  limb  and 
muscle  composed,  and  a  look  of  calm  restfulness  on  his 
face,  which  lighted  suddenly  when  Rossie  said  to  him, 
"  We  have  heard  from  Mr.  Everard  ;  he  is  on  his  way 
home  ;  he  will  be  here  to-night.  You  are  very  glad," 
she  continued,  as  she  saw  the  unmistakable  joy  in  his 
face.  "Maybe  you  will  be  able  to  make  him  understand 
what  it  was  you  wished  to  have  done,  but  if  you  cannot 
and  I  ever  find  it  out,  depend  upon  it  I  will  do  it,  sure. 
You  can  trust  me." 

She  looked  like  one  to  be  trusted,  the  brave,  unselfish 
little  girl,  on  whom  the  dying  eyes  were  fixed,  so  that 
Rossie's  was  the  last  face  they  ever  saw  before  they 
closed  forever  on  the  things  of  this  world,  and  entered 
upon  the  realities  of  the  next.  Everard  was  not  there, 
for  the  train  was  behind  time,  and  when  at  last  the 
Forrest  House  carriage  came  rapidly  up  the  avenue, 
bringing  the  son  who  ten  days  ago  had  been  cast  out 
from  his  home  and  bidden  never  to  enter  it  again,  there 
were  knots  of  crape  upon  the  bell-knobs,  and  in  the 
chamber  above  a  sheeted  figure  lay,  scarcely  more  quiet 
and  still  than  when  bound  in  the  relentless  bands  of 
paralysis,  but  with  death  upon  the  wrhite  face,  which  in 
its  last  sleep  looked  so  calm  and  peaceful. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  JUDGE'S  WILL. 

T  was  Rosamond  who  met  Everard  as  he  came 
into  the  house,  and  taking  his  hands  in  hers, 
held  them  in  token  of  sympathy,  but  said  no 
word  by  way  of  condolence,  or  of  the  dead 
father  either.  She  merely  asked  him  of  his 
journey  and  the  delay  of  the  train,  and  if  lie  was  not 
cold  and  hungry,  and  saw  that  his  supper  was  served 
him  by  a  bright,  cheerful  fire,  and  made  him  in  all  re- 


THE     JUDGE'S     WILL.  143 

spects  as  comfortable  as  she  could,  while  the  servants 
vied  with  each  other  in  their  attentions  to  him,  for  was 
lie  not  now  their  master,  the  rightful  heir  of  all  the  For- 
rest property.  Whether  Everard  experienced  any  sense 
of  freedom  and  heirship,  or  not,  I  cannot  tell,  or  what  he 
felt  when  at  last  he  stood  by  his  dead  father,  and  looked 
upon  the  face  which,  when  he  saw  it  last,  had  been  dis- 
torted with  passion  and  hatred  of  himself.  How  placid 
and  even  sweet  it  was  in  its  expression  now, — so  sweet 
that  Everard  stooped  down,  kissing  the  cold  forehead, 
and  whispered  softly  :  "I  am  so  sorry,  father,  that  I 
ever  made  you  angry  with  me  ;"  then,  he  replaced  the 
covering  and  went  out  from  the  silent  room.  In  the 
hall  he  met  Rossie,  who,  seeing  the  trace  of  weeping  on 
his  face,  thought  to  comfort-  him  by  repeating  the  mes- 
sage left  him  by  his  father. 

"  Would  you  mind  ray  telling  you  all  about  his  sick- 
ness ;  can  you  bear  to  hear  it  ?"  she  asked,  and  he  replied  : 

"  Yes,  tell  me  about  it, — from  the  very  first." 

So  they  sat  down  together,  and  in  her  quaint,  straight- 
forward way  Rossie  told  the  story  of  the  last  ten  da)**, 
softening  as  much  as  possible  the  judge's  anger  when  he 
found  his  son  had  taken  him  at  his  word  and  gone,  and 
dwelling  the  most  upon  the  change  which  came  over 
him  while  lying  so  helpless  and  weak.  She  told  of  the 
method  of  communication  she  managed  to  establish,  and 
which  had  been  suggested  to  her  by  reading  Monte  Cristo, 
and  then  continued  : 

"He  seemed  so  glad  when  I  told  him  we  had  sent  for 
you,  and  so  sorry  that  we  could  not  find  you,  and  his  eyes 
kept  following  me  all  the  time  as  if  there  was  something 
he  wanted  to  say  and  couldn't,  and  at  last  I  found  out 
what  it  was.  If  he  never  saw  you  again,  he  wished  me 
to  tell  you  that  he  forgave  you  everything  ;  that  was  it, 
I  know,  and  he  was  so  happy  and  quiet  after  it,  though 
he  wanted  you  to  come  so  much." 

Here  Rossie  paused,  and  thought  of  that  mysterious 
thing  which  had  seemed  to  trouble  him  the  most,  and  which 
she  was  pledged  to  do  when  she  found  out  what  it  was. 

"I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  tell  him  that  now,"  she 
thought,  and  finally  concluded  that  she  would  not  until 
something  definite  came  to  her  knowledge  of  which  she 
could  speak. 


144  THE     JUDGE'S     WILL. 

The  next  morning  Beatrice  came  over,  with  a  great 
pity  in  her  heart  for  Everard,  and  a  great  fear  as  well, 
when  she  remembered  the  angry  man  who  had  asked 
her  to  witness  his  will.  Had  he  carried  out  his  purpose 
and  left  behind  him  a  paper  which  would  work  mischief 
to  his  son,  or  had  he  thought  better  of  it,  and  destroyed 
it,  perhaps,  or  left  it  unwitnessed?  She  could  not 
guess.  She  could  only  hope  for  the  best,  so  far  as  the 
will  was  concerned  ;  but  there  was  a  heavier  trouble  in 
store  for  the  young  man  than  loss  of  property, — the 
acknowledging  his  marriage  and  bringing  home  his  wife, 
for  he  would  do  that  now,  of  course.  There  was  no 
other  way,  and  Beatrice  resolved  at  once  to  stand 
bravely  by  Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest  when  she  should  arrive. 

Then  came  the  funeral, — a  grand  affair,  with  a  score 
of  carriages,  a  multitude  of  friends,  and  crowds  of 
people,  who  came  to  go  over  the  house  and  through  the 
grounds  more  than  for  any  respect  they  had  for  the  man 
who  lay  in  his  costly  coffin,  unmindful  of  the  curious 
ones  who  looked  at  him  and  speculated  upon  the  nature 
of  the  trouble  which  had  driven  his  only  son  from  home. 
Everybody  knew  there  had  been  trouble,  and  each  one 
put  his  or  her  construction  on  it,  and  all  exonerated 
Everard  from  more  blame  than  naturally  would  attach 
to  the  acts  of  a  young  man  like  him,  as  opposed  to  the 
ideas  of  a  man  like  his  father. 

Beatrice  went  with  Everard  and  Rossie  to  the  grave, 
and  then  back  to  the  house,  which  in  their  absence  had 
been  cleansed  from  the  atmosphere  of  death.  The  win- 
dows and  doors  had  been  opened  to  admit  the  fresh,  pure 
air  blowing  up  from  the  river  ;  then  they  were  closed 
again  and  wood  fires  kindled  on  the  hearth,  and  the  table 
arranged  in  the  dining-room,  and  one  of  Aunt  Axie's 
best  dinners  was  waiting  for  such  of  the  friends  as  chose 
to  stay. 

Between  Beatrice  and  Lawyer  Russell  there  had  been 
a  private  talk  concerning  the  will  which  so  much  troubled 
Bee,  and  the  lawyer  had  inclined  to  the  belief  that  there 
was  none  of  recent  date,  or  he  should  have  known  it. 
lie  would  look,  however,  he  said,  as  he  had  a  key  to  the 
judge's  private  desk  in  the  office.  He  had  looked,  and 
to  his  surprise  had  found  a  will,  which  must  have  been 
made  the  very  day  before  the  judge's  sickness,  and  dur- 


THE    JUDGE'S     WILL.  145 

ing  his  own  absence  from  the  office.  This  he  communi- 
cated to  Beatrice,  and  with  her  remained  at  the  Forrest 
House  to  dinner  for  the  purpose  of  making  the  fact 
known  to  Everard  as  soon  as  possible.  As  for  Everard, 
he  had  not  thought  of  a  will,  or  indeed  of  anything,  ex- 
cept in  a  confused,  general  kind  of  way,  that  he  was,  of 
course,  his  father's  natural  heir,  and  that  now  Josephine 
must  come  there  as  his  wife,  and  from  that  he  shrank 
with  a  feeling  amounting  to  actual  pain;  and  he  was  not 
a  little  surprised  when,  after  dinner  was  over,  and  they 
had  returned  to  the  long  parlor,  Lawyer  Russell,  as  the 
old  and  particular  friend  of  the  family,  said  to  him,  "  I 
found  in  looking  over  your  father's  papers  a  will,  and  as 
it  was  inclosed  in  an  envelope  directed  to  me,  I  took 
charge  of  it,  and  have  it  with  me  now.  Shall  I  read  it 
aloud,  or  give  it  to  you  ?" 

"  A  will  !"  Everard  said,  and  a  deep  flush  spread  it- 
self over  his  face  as  if  he  dimly  felt  the  coming  blow 
which  was  to  strike  him  with  such  force.  "Did  father 
leave  a  will?  I  never  supposed  he  made  one.  Read  it 
aloud,  of  course.  These  are  all  my  friends,"  and  he 
glanced  at  the  clergyman  and  his  wife,  and  Beatrice  and 
Rossie,  the  only  people  present. 

The  two  girls  were  sitting  side  by  side  on  a  low  sofa, 
and  opposite  them  was  Everard,  looking  very  pale  and 
nervous  as  he  bent  forward  a  little  to  listen  to  the  will. 
It  was  made  the  day  before  the  judge's  illness,  and  was 
duly  drawn  up  and  witnessed  by  Parker  and  Merritt,  the 
two  students  in  the  office,  and  after  mentioning  a  few 
thousands  which  were  to  be  given  to  different  individuals 
and  charities,  the  judge  went  on  :  "  the  remainder  of 
my  estate,  both  real  and  personal,  I  give,  bequeath,  and 
devise  to  the  girl,  Rosamond  Hastings,  and " 

Lawyer  Russell  got  no  further,  for  there  was  a  low 
cry  from  Rossie  as  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  crossed 
swiftly  to  Everard's  side.  He,  too,  had  risen,  and  with 
clasped  hands  was  gazing  fixedly  at  the  lawyer,  like  one 
listening  to  his  death-warrant. 

"  What  did  he  say,  Mr.  Everard,  about  me  ?  What 
does  it  mean?"  Rossie  asked,  laying  both  hands  on  Ever- 
ard's arm,  and  drawing  his  attention  to  herself. 

"It  means  that  my  father  disinherited  me,  and  made 
7 


146  THE     JUDGE'S     WILL. 

you  his  heir,"  Everard  answered  her,  a  little  bitterly, 
while  she  continued  : 

"  It  is  not  so.  It  does  not  read  that  way.  There  is 
"some  mistake  ;"  and  before  the  lawyer  was  aware  of  her 
intention  she  snatched  the  paper  from  him,  and  ran  her 
eye  with  lightning  rapidity  over  what  was  written  on  it, 
comprehending  as  she  read  that  what  she  had  heard  was 
true. 

Everard  was  disinherited,  and  she  was  the  heiress  of 
all  the  Forrest  estate.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  tear  the 
paper  in  pieces,  but  Everard  caught  her  hands  as  she 
was  in  the  act  of  rending  it  asunder,  and  said  : 

"Rossie,  you  must  not  do  that.  The  will  will  stand 
just  as  my  father  meant  it  should." 

Rossie's  face  was  a  study  as  she  lifted  it  toward 
Everard,  pale  as  death,  with  a  firm,  set  look  about  the 
mouth,  and  an  expression  in  her  large  black  eyes  such  as 
the  Cenci's  might  have  worn  when  upon  the  rack. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Everard,"  she  said,  "  you  must  always  hate 
me,  though  I'll  never  let  it  stand.  I  did  not  know  it.  I 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing.  I  shall  never  touch  it, 
never.  Don't  hate  me,  Mr.  Everard.  Oh,  Beatrice,  help 
me, — somebody  help  me.  I  believe  I  am  going  to  die." 

But  she  was  only  fainting,  and  Everard  took  her  in 
liis  arms  and  carried  her  to  an  open  window  in  the  ad- 
joining room,  and  giving  her  to  the  care  of  Beatrice, 
waited  to  see  the  color  come  back  to  her  face  and  motion 
to  her  eyelids  ;  then  lie  returned  to  the  parlor,  where 
Lawyer  'Russell  was  examining  the  document  which  had 
done  so  much  harm  and  made  the  memory  of  the  dead 
man  odious. 

"  Everard,  this  is  a  very  strange  affair  ;  a  most  inex- 
plicable thing,"  the  lawyer  said.  "  I  cannot  understand 
it,  or  believe  he  really  meant  it.  I  do  not  wish  to  pry 
into  your  affairs,  but  as  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  may 
I  ask  if  you  know  of  any  reason,  however  slight,  why 
he  should  do  this  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Everard  answered  promptly,  "  there  is  a  rea- 
son ;  a  good  one,  many  would  say  ;  and  that  I  was 
rightly  punished.  The  will  is  just  ;  1  have  no  fault  to 
find  with  it.  I  shall  not  try  to  dispute  it.  The  will 
must  stand." 

He  spoke  proudly  and  decidedly,  with  the  air  of  one 


THE    JUDGE'S     WILL.  147 

•  * 

whose  mind  was  made  up,  and  who  did  not  wish  to  con- 
tinue the  conversation,  and  who  would  not  be  made  an 
object  of  pity  or  sympathy  by  any  one.  But  when  Law- 
yer Russell  was  gone,  and  Beatrice  came  to  him  as  he  sat 
alone  by  the  dying  fire>  and  putting  her  hand  on  his 
bowed  head,  said  to  him  : 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  and  wish  I  could  help  you  some  way," 
he  broke  down  a  little,  and  his  voice  shook  as  he  replied  : 

"Thank  you,  Bee.  I  know  you  do,  and  your  friend- 
ship and  sympathy  are  very  dear  to  me  now,  for  you 
know  everything,  and  I  can  talk  to  you  as  to  no  one  else. 
Father  must  have  been  very  angry,  and  his  anger  reaches 
up  out  of  his  grave  and  holds  me  with  a  savage  grip,  but 
I  do  not  blame  him  much,  and,  Bee,  don't  think  there  is 
no  sweet  with  the  bitter,  for  that  is  not  so.  It  is  true  I 
like  money  as  well  as  any  one,  and  I  do  not  say  that  I 
had  not  to  some  degree  anticipated  what  it  would  bring 
me,  but,  Bee,  with  that  feeling  was  another,  a  shrinking 
from  what  would  be  my  plain  duty,  if  I  were  master 
here.  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"You  would  bring  your  wife  home,"  Bee  answered, 
and  he  continued  : 

"  Yes,  that  would  have  to  be  done,  and, — Heaven 
forgive  me  if  I  am  wrong, — but  I  almost  believe  I  would 
rather  be  poor  and  work  for  her, — she  living  in  Hoi  bur- 
ton,— than  be  rich  and  live  with  her  here.  And  then,  if 
I  must  be  supplanted,  I  am  so  glad  it  is  by  Rossie.  She 
takes  it  hard,  poor  child  ;  how  was  she  when  you  left 
her?" 

"  Over  the  faint,  but  crying  bitterly,  and  she  bade 
me  tell  you  to  come  to  her,"  Beatrice  replied,  and  Ever- 
ard  went  to  Rossie's  room,  where  she  was  lying  on  the 
couch,  her  eyes  swollen  with  weeping,  and  her  face  very 
pale. 

She  was  taking  it  hard, — her  sudden  accession  to 
riches,  and  when  she  saw  Everard  she  began  sobbing 
afresh  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  Please  go  away,"  she  said  to  Beatrice,  "  I  want  to 
see  him  alone." 

Beatrice  complied,  and  the  moment  she  was  gone 
Rosamond  began  to  tell  Everard  how  impossible  it  was 
that  she  should  ever  touch  the  money  left  her  in  a  fit  of 
anger. 


148  THE    JUDGE'S     WILL. 

"  It  is  not  mine,"  she  said.  "  I  have  no  shadow  of 
right  to  it,  and  you  must  take  it  just  the  same  as  if  that 
will  had  never  been.  Say  you  will,  or  I  believe  I  shall 
go  mad." 

But  Everard  was  as  immovable  as  a  rock,  and  an- 
swered her: 

"  Do  you  for  a  moment  think  my  pride,  if  nothing 
else,  would  allow  me  to  touch  what  was  willed  away 
from  me  ?  Never,  Rossie.  1  would  rather  starve;  but 
I  shall  not  do  that.  I  am  young  and  strong,  and  the 
world  is  before  me,  and  I  am  willing  to  work  at  what- 
ever I  find  to  do,  and  shall  do  so,  too,  and  make  far  more 
of  a  man,  I  dare  say,  than  if  I  had  all  this  money.  I  am 
naturally  indolent  and  extravagant,  and  very  likely 
should  fall  into  my  old  expensive  habits,  and  I  don't 
want  to  do  that.  I  am  so  glad  you  are  the  heiress;  so 
glad  to  have  you  mistress  here  in  the  old  home.  You 
will  make  a  dear  little  lady  of  Forrest  House." 

He  spoke  almost  playfully,  hoping  thus  to  soothe  and 
quiet  her,  for  she  was  violently  agitated,  and  shook  like 
a  leaf;  but  nothing  he  said  had  any  effect  upon  her. 
Only  one  thing  could  help  her  now.  She  felt  that  she 
had  unwittingly  been  the  means  of  wronging  Everard, 
and  she  never  could  rest  until  the  wrong  was  righted, 
and  his  own  given  back  to  him. 

"  I'll  never  be  the  lady  of  Forrest  House,"  she  said, 
energetically.  "I  shall  give  it  back  to  you,  whether  you 
will  take  it  or  not.  It  is  not  mine." 

"  Yes,  Rossie,  it  is  yours.  He  knew  what  he  was 
doing;  he  meant  you  to  have  it,"  Everard  said  ;  and 
starting  suddenly,  as  the  remembrance  of  something 
flashed  upon  her,  Rossie  shed  back  her  hair  from  her 
spotted,  tear-stained  face,  and  exclaimed,  with  a  ring  of 
joy  in  her  voice: 

"  He  might  have  meant  it  at  first,  when  he  was  very 
angry,  but  he  repented  of  it  and  tried  to  make  amends. 
I  see  it  now.  I  know  what  he  meant, — the  something 
which  concerned  you,  and  which  I  was  to  do.  I  promised 
solemnly  I  would, — it  will  be  a  dreadful  lie  if  I  don't  ; 
but  you  will  let  me  when  you  hear, — when  you  know  how 
he  took  it  back." 

She  was  very  much  excited,  and  her  eyes  shone  like 
stars  as  she  stood  before  Everard,  who  looked  at  her 


THE     JUDGE'S     WILL  149 

curiously,  with  a  thought  that  her  mind  might  really  be 
unsettled. 

"Sit  down,  Rossie,  and  compose  yourself,"  he  said, 
trying  to  draw  her  back  to  the  couch  ;  but  she  would  not 
sit  down,  and  she  went  on  rapidly  : 

"  I  told  you  how  I  managed  to  talk  with  your  father, 
and  to  find  out  that  he  wanted  to  forgive  you,  but  I  did 
not  tell  you  the  rest.  I  thought  I'd  wait  till  it  came  to 
me  what  I  was  to  do,  and  it  has  come.  I  know  now  just 
what  he  meant.  He  was  not  quiet  after  the  forgiveness, 
as  I  thought  he'd  be,  but  his  eyes  followed  me  every- 
where, and  said  as  plain  as  eyes  could  say,  *  There  is 
something  more  ;'  so  I  began  to  question  him  again, 
and  found  it  was  about  you  and  another  person.  That 
person  was  myself,  and  I  was  to  do  something  when  I 
found  out  what  it  was.  I  said,  4Is  it  something  I  am  to 
do  for  Mr.  Everard  ?'  and  his  eyes  went  to  the  window  ; 
then  I  asked,  *  Shall  I  some  day  know  what  it  is  ?'  and 
he  answered  '  Yes.'  Then  I  said,  '  I'll  surely,  surely  do 
it,'  and  the  poor,  helpless  face  laughed  up  at  me,  he  was 
so  pleased  and  happy.  After  that  he  was  very  quiet. 
So  you  know  he  meant  me  to  give  the  money  back,  and 
you  will  not  refuse  me  now  ?" 

For  a  moment  Everard  could  not  speak.  As  Rossie 
talked,  the  great  tears  had  gathered  slowly  and  dropped 
upon  his  face.  He  could  see  so  vividly  the  scene  which 
she  described, — the  dim,  eager  eyes  of  his  dead  father 
trying  to  communicate  with  the  anxious,  excited  little 
girl,  who  had,  perhaps,  interpreted  their  meaning  aright. 
There  could  be  but  little  doubt  that  his  father,  when  his 
passion  cooled  down,  was  sorry  for  the  rash  act,  and 
Everard  was  deeply  moved  by  it,  and  for  a  little  space 
of  time  felt  uncertain  how  to  act,  but  when  he  remem- 
bered who  must  share  his  fortune  with  him,  and  all  his 
father  had  said  of  her,  he  grew  hard  and  decided  again, 
and  said  to  Rosamond  : 

"  I  am  glad  you  told  me  this,  Rossie.  It  makes  it 
easier  to  bear,  feeling  that  possibly  father  was  sorry,  and 
wished  to  make  reparation,  but  that  does  not  change  the 
facts,  nor  the  will.  He  gave  everything  to  you,  and  you 
cannot  give  it  to  me  now,  if  you  would.  You  are  not 
of  age,  you  see." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  Rosamond  asked,  "  that  even  if  you 


150  THE    HEIHE88. 

would  take  the  money,  I  cannot  give  it  back  till  I  am 
twenty-one  ?" 

"Not  lawfully,  no,"  Everard  replied;  and  Rossie  ex- 
claimed, almost  angrily: 

"  I  can  ;  I  will.  I  know  there  is  some  way,  and  I'll 
find  it  out.  I  will  not  have  it  so,  and  I  think  you  are 
mean  to  be  so  proud  and  stiff." 

She  was  losing  all  patience  with  Everard  for  what 
she  deemed  his  obduracy;  her  head  was  aching  dread- 
fully, and  after  this  outburst  she  sank  down  again  upon 
the  couch,  and  burying  her  face  in  the  pillow  told  him 
to  go  away  and  not  come  again  till  he  could  do  as  she 
wished  him  to  do.  It  was  not  often  that  Rosamond  was 
thus  moved,  and  Everard  smiled  in  spite  of  himself  at 
her  wrath,  but  went  out  and  left  her  alone  as  she  desired. 


CHAPTER    XX. 
THE  HEIRESS. 

HE  looked  like  anything  but  an  heiress  the 
next  morning  when  she  came  down  to  break- 
fast, with  her  swollen  face  and  red  eyes, 
which  had  scarcely  been  for  a  moment  closed 
in  sleep.  Everard  was  far  brighter  and 
fresher.  He  had  accepted  the  situation,  and  was  re- 
solved to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  though  the  memory 
of  his  father's  bitter  anger  rested  heavily  on  his  heart, 
it  was  softened  materially  by  what  Rosamond  had  told 
him,  and,  contrary  to  his  expectations,  he  had  slept 
soundly  and  quietly,  and  though  very  pale  and  worn, 
seemed  much  like  himself  when  he  met  Rossie  in  the 
breakfast-room.  Not  a  word  was  said  on  the  subject 
uppermost  in  both  their  minds;  he  carved,  sitting  in  his 
father's  old  place,  and  she  poured  the  coffee  with  a  shak- 
ing hand,  and  Bee  did  most  of  the  talking,  and  was  so 
bright  and  merry  that  when  at  last  she  said  good-by  and 
went  to  her  own  home,  Rossie's  face  was  not  half  so 
sorry-looking,  or  her  heart  so  heavy  and  sad,  though  she 
was 'just  as  decided  with  regard  to  the  money. 


THE    HEIRESS 


151 


She  had  not  yet  talked  with  Lawyer  Russell,  in  whom 
she  had  the  utmost  confidence.  He  surely  would  know 
some  way  out  of  the  trouble, — some  way  by  which  she 
could  give  Everard  his  own  ;  and  she  sent  for  him  to 
come  to  the  house,  as  she  would  not  for  the  world  appear 
in  the  streets  with  this  disgrace  upon  her, — for  Rossie  felt 
it  a  disgrace, — of  having  supplanted  Everard  ;  and  she 
told  the  lawyer  so  when  he  came,  and  assuring  him  of 
her  unalterable  determination  never  to  touch  a  dollar  of 
the  Forrest  money,  asked  if  there  was  not  some  way  by 
which  she  could  rid  herself  of  the  burden  and  give  it 
back  to  Everard.  She  told  him  what  had  occurred  be- 
tween herself  and  the  judge,  and  asked  if  he  did  not 
think  it  had  reference  to  the  will.  The  lawyer  was  cer- 
tain it  had,  and  asked  if  Everard  knew  this  fact.  Yes, 
Rossie  had  told  him,  and  though  he  seemed  glad  in  one 
way  to  know  his  father  had  any  regrets  for  the  rash  act, 
he  still  adhered  to  his  resolve  to  abide  by  the  will. 

"  But  he  cannot  ;  he  shall  not ;  he  must  take  the 
money.  I  give  it  to  him  ;  it  is  not  mine,  and  I  will  not 
have  it,"  she  said,  impetuously,  demanding  that  he 
should  fix  it  some  way. 

Mr.  Russell  had  seen  Everard  for  a  few  moments 
that  morning,  and  heard  from  him  of  his  firm  resolve 
not  to  enter  into  any  arrangement  whereby  he  could  be 
benefited  by  his  father's  fortune. 

"  Father  cast  me  off,"  he  said,  "  and  no  arguments 
can  shake  my  purpose.  Rossie  is  the  heiress,  and  she 
must  take  what  is  thrust  upon  her  ;  but  make  it  as  easy 
as  you  can  for  the  child  ;  let  her  choose  her  own  guard- 
ian, and  I  trust  she  will  choose  you.  I  know  you  will  be 
trustworthy." 

All  this  the  lawyer  repeated  to  Rossie,  and  then,  as 
she  still  persisted  in  giving  back,  as  she  expressed  it,  he 
explained  to  her  how  impossible  it  was  for  her  to  do  it 
until  she  reached  her  majority,  even  if  Everard  would 
take  it. 

"  You  are  a  minor  yet,"  he  said  ;  "  are  what  we  call 
an  infant.  You  must  have  a  guardian,  and  I  propose 
that  you  take  Everard,  and  he  may  also  be  appointed  ad- 
ministrator of  the  estate  ;  he  will  then  be  entitled  to  a 
certain  amount  of  money  as  his  legitimate  fees,  and  so 
get  some  of  it." 


152  THE    HEIRESS. 

Exactly  what  the  office  of  guardian  and  administra- 
tor was,  Rosamond  did  not  know,  but  she  grasped  one 
idea,  and  said  : 

"Yon  mean  that  whoever  is  administrator  will  be 
paid,  and  if  Mr.  Everard  is  that  he  will  get  some  money 
which  belongs  to  him  already  ;  that  is  it,  is  it  not  ? 
Now,  I  want  him  to  have  it  all ;  if  I  cannot  give  it  to 
him  till  I  am  twenty-one,  I  shall  do  it  then,  so  sure  as  I 
live  to  see  that  day,  and,  meanwhile,  you  must  contrive 
some  way  for  him  to  use  it  just  the  same.  You  can,  I 
know.  I  am  quite  resolved." 

She  had  risen  as  she  talked  and  stood  before  him, 
her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  unnaturally  bright,  and  her 
head  thrown  back,  so  that  she  seemed  taller  than  she 
really  was.  Lawyer  Russell  had  always  liked  Rossie 
very  much,  and  since  that  little  business  matter  touching 
the  receipt,  he  had  felt  increased  respect  and  admira- 
tion for  her,  for  he  was  certain  she  had  helped  Everard 
out  of  some  one  of  the  many  scrapes  he  used  in  those 
days  to  be  in.  Looking  at  her  now  he  thought  what  a 
fine-looking  girl  she  was  growing  to  be,  and  started  sud- 
denly as  he  saw  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  but  such  a 
way  that  he  hesitated  a  moment  before  suggesting  it. 
Taking  off  his  glasses,  and  wiping  them  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, he  coughed  two  or  three  times  and  then  said  : 

"  How  old  are  you,  Rossie  ?" 

"Fifteen  last  June/'  was  her  reply,  and  he  con- 
tinued : 

"Then  you  are  almost  fifteen  and  a  half,  and  pretty 
well  grown.  Yes,  it  might  do  ;  there  have  been  queerer 
things  than  that." 

"  Queerer  things  than  what  ?"  Rossie  asked,  and  he 
replied  : 

"  Than  what  I  am  going  to  suggest.  There  is  a  way 
by  which  Everard  can  use  that  money  if  he  will." 

"  What  is  it  ?  Tell  me,"  she  exclaimed,  her  face  all 
aglow  with  excitement. 

"  lie  could  marry  you,  and  then  what  was  yours 
might  be  his." 

The  lawyer  had  thrown  the  bombshell  and  waited  for 
the  explosion,  but  there  was  none.  Rossie's  face  was 
just  as  bright  and  eager,  and  showed  not  the  slightest 
consciousness  or  shrinking  back  from  a  proposition  which 


THE    HEIRESS.  153 

would  have  covered  some  girls  with  blushes  and  con- 
fusion. But  Rossie  was  a  simple-hearted  girl,  who, 
never  having  associated  much  with  companions  of  her 
own  age,  had  never  had  her  mind  filled  with  lovers  and 
matrimony,  and  when  the  lawyer  proposed  her  marrying 
Everard  she  looked  upon  it  purely  as  a  business  transac- 
tion,— a  means  of  giving  him  his  own  ;  love  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  nor  did  it  for  a  moment  occur  to  her  that 
there  would  be  anything  out  of  the  way  in  such  an  act. 
She  should  not  live  with  him,  of  course  ;  that  would  be 
impossible.  She  should  simply  marry  him,  and  then 
leave  him  to  the  enjoyment  of  her  fortune,  and  her  first 
question  to  the  lawyer  was  : 

'  Do  you  think  he  would  have  me  ?" 

The  old  man  took  his  glasses  off  again  and  looked  at 
her,  wondering  much  what  stuff  she  was  made  of. 
Whatever  it  was  he  was  sure  she  was  as  modest,  and  pure, 
and  innocent  as  a  new-born  child,  and  he  answered  her  : 

"  I've  no  doubt  of  it.     I  would  if  I  were  in  his  place." 

"  And  if  he  does,  he  can  live  right  along  here  as  if 
there  had  been  no  will  ?"  was  her  next  question  ;  and  the 
lawyer  replied  : 

•  Yes,  just  as  if  there  had  been  no  will  ;"  then,  re- 
membering he  had  an  engagement  with  a  client  and 
that  it  was  already  past  the  hour,  he  arose  to  go,  and 
Rosamond  was  left  alone. 

It  was  not  her  nature  to  put  off  anything  she  had  to 
do,  and  feeling  that  she  should  never  rest  until  some- 
thing definite  was  settled,  she  inquired  at  once  where 
Everard  was,  and  finding  that  he  was  in  his  father's 
room,  started  thither  immediately.  He  was  sitting  in 
his  father's  chair  by  the  table,  arranging  and  sorting 
some  papers  and  letters,  but  he  arose  when  she  came  in 
and  asked  what  he  could  do  for  her. 

"  I  have  been  talking  with  Lawyer  Russell,"  she  said, 
"trying  to  fix  it  some  way,  and  he  says  I  cannot  give  it 
to  you  till  I  am  twenty-one  ;  then  I  can  do  as  I  please, 
but  it  is  so  long  to  wait, — five  years  and  a-half.  I  am  most 
fifteen  and  a-half  now.  (This  in  parenthesis,  as  if  to  con- 
duce him  of  her  mature  age,  preparatory  to  what  was  to 
follow.)  I  want  you  to  have  the  money  so  much,  for  it  is 
yours,  no  matter  what  the  law  may  say.  I  do  not  like  the 
law,  and  there  is  but  one  way  out  of  .it, — the  trouble,  I 
7* 


154  THE    HEIRESS. 

mean.  Lawyer  Russell  says  if  you  marry  me,  yon  can  use 
the  money  just  the  same.  Will  you,  Mr.  Everard  ?  I  am 
fifteen  and  a-half." 

This  she  reiterated  to  strengthen  her  cause,  looking 
him  straight  in  the  face  all  the  time,  without  the  slight- 
est change  of  color  or  sign  of  self-consciousness. 

Had  she  proposed  in  serious  earnestness  to  murder 
him  Everard  could  not  have  been  more  startled,  or  stared 
at  her  more  fixedly  than  he  did,  as  if  to  see  what  manner 
of  girl  this  was,  asking  him  to  marry  her  as  coolly  and 
in  as  matter-of-fact  a  way  as  she  would  have  asked  the 
most  ordinary  favor.  Was  she  crazy  ?  Had  the  trouble 
about  the  will  actually  affected  her  brain  !  He  thought 
so,  and  said  to  her  very  gently,  as  he  would  have  spoken 
to  a  child  or  a  lunatic  : 

"You  are  talking  wildly,  Rossie.  You  do  not  under- 
stand what  you  are  saying.  You  are  tired  and  excited. 
You  must  rest,  and  never  on  any  account  let  any  one 
know  what  you  have  said  to  me." 

"I  do  know  what  I  am  saying,  and  I  am  neither  tired 
nor  excited,"  Rossie  answered.  "  Lawyer  Russell  said 
that  was  the  only  way  you  could  use  the  money  before  I 
was  twenty-one." 

"And  did  he  send  you  here  to  say  that  to  me?" 
Everard  asked,  and  she  replied  : 

"No,  he  only  suggested  it  as  a  means,  because  I 
would  have  him  think  of  something.  I  came  myself." 

He  saw  she  was  in  earnest ;  saw,  too,  that  she  did  not 
at  all  comprehend  what  she  was  doing,  or  the  position  in 
which  she  was  placing  herself  if  it  should  be  known.  In 
her  utter  simplicity  r  '  lack  of  worldly  wisdom,  she 
might  talk  of  this  thing  to  others  and  put  herself  in  a 
wrong  light  before  the  world,  and  however  painful  the 
task,  he  must  enlighten  her. 

"  Rossie,"  he  began,  "  you  do  not  at  all  know  what 
yon  have  done,  or  how  the  act  might  be  construed,  by 
women,  especially,  if  they  knew  it.  Girls  do  not  usually 
ask  men  to  marry  them  ;  they  wait  to  be  asked." 

Slowly,  as  the  shadow  of  some  gigantic  mountain 
creeps  across  the  valley,  there  was  dawning  on  Rossie's 
mind  a  perception  of  the  construction  which  might  be 
put  upon  her  words,  and  the  blood-red  flame  suffused  her 
face  and  neck,  and  spread  to  her  fiuger-tips,  as  she  said, 


THE    HEIRESS.  155 

vehemently  :  "You  mistake  me,  Mr.  Everard,  I  did  not 
mean  it  as  you  might  marry  Miss  Beatrice,  or  somebody 
you  loved.  I  did  not  mean  anything  except  a  way  out. 
I  was  not  going  to  live  here  at  all ;  only  marry  you  so 
you  could  have  the  money,  and  then  I  go  away  and  do 
for  myself.  That's  what  I  meant.  You  know  I  do  not 
love  you  in  a  marrying  way,  and  that  I'm  not  the  brazen- 
faced thing  to  tell  you  so  if  I  did.  If  I  thought  you 
could  believe  that  of  me,  I  should  drop  dead  at  your 
feet,  and  I  almost  wish  that  I  could  now,  for  very  shame 
of  what  I  have  done." 

As  she  talked  there  had  come  to  Rossie  more  and 
more  the  great  impropriety  and  seeming  immodesty  of 
what,  in  all  innocence  of  purpose  she  had  done,  and  the 
knowledge  almost  crushed  her  to  the  earth,  making  her 
cover  her  burning  face  with  her  hands,  and  transforming 
her  at  once  from  a  child  into  a  woman,  with  all  a  sensi- 
tive woman's  power  to  feel  and  suffer.  She  did  not  wait 
for  him  to  speak,  but  went  on  rapidly  : 

"You  cannot  despise  me  more  than  I  despise  myself, 
for  I  see  it  now  just  as  you  do,  and  I  must  have  been  an 
idiot,  or  crazy.  You  will  loathe  me  always,  of  course, 
and  I  cannot  blame  you  ;  but  remember,  I  did  not  mean 
it  for  love,  or  think  to  stay  with  you.  I  do  not  love  you 
that  way;s\io\\  a  thing  would  be  impossible,  and  I  would 
not  marry  you  now  for  a  thousand  times  the  money." 

She  had  used  her  last  and  heaviest  weapon,  and  with- 
out a  glance  at  him  turned  to  go  from  the  room,  but  he 
would  not  suffer  her  to  leave  him  thus.  Over  him,  too, 
as  she  talked,  a  curious  change  had  come,  for  he  saw  the 
transformation  taking  place^aijj^new  he  was  losing  the 
sweet,  old-fashioned,  guileless  xrtilld,  who  had  been  so 
dear  to  him.  She  was  leaving  him,  forever,  and  in  her 
place  there  stood  a  full-fledged  woman,  rife  with  a 
woman's  instincts,  quivering  with  passion,  and  burning 
with  resentment  and  anger,  that  he  had  not  at  once  un- 
derstood her  meaning  just  as  she  understood  it.  How 
her  words, — "I  do  not  love  you  that  way  ;  such  a  thing 
is  impossible  ;  and  I  would  not  marry  you  now  for  a 
thousand  times  the  money,"  rang  through  his  ears,  and 
burned  themselves  into  his  memory  to  be  recalled  after- 
ward, with  such  bitte>*  pain  as  he  had  never  known.  He 
did  not  quite  like  this  impetuous  assertion  of  the  impos- 


156  THE    HEIRESS. 

sibility  of  loving  him.  It  grated  upon  him  with  a  sense 
of  something  lost.  He  must  stand  well  with  Rossie, 
though  her  love  that  way,  as  she  expressed  it,  was  some- 
thing he  had  never  dreamed  of  as  possible. 

"  Rossie,"  be  said,  putting  out  his  arm  to  detain  her, 
"  you  must  not  go  from  me  feeling  as  you  do  now.  You 
have  done  nothing  for  which  you  need  to  blush,  because 
you  had  no  bad  intent,  and  the  motive  is  what  exalts  or 
condemns  the  act.  Sit  here  by  me.  I  wish  to  talk  with 
you." 

He  made  her  sit  down  beside  him  upon  the  sofa,  and 
tried  to  take  her  hand,  but  she  drew  it  swiftly  away,  with 
a  quick,  imperative  gesture.  He  would  never  hold  her 
hand  again,  just  as  he  had  held  the  little  brown,  sun- 
burned hands  so  many  times.  She  was  a  woman  now, 
with  all  her  woman's  armor  bristling  about  her,  and 
as  such  he  must  treat  with  her.  It  was  a  novel  situa- 
tion in  which  he  found  himself,  trying  to  choose  words 
with  which  to  address  little  Rossie  Hastings,  and  for 
a  moment  he  hesitated  how  to  begin.  Of  her  strange 
offer  to  himself  he  did  not  mean  to  speak,  for  there 
had  been  enough  said  on  that  subject.  It  is  true  he 
had  neither  accepted  nor  refused,  but  that  was  not 
necessary,  for  she  had  withdrawn  her  proposition  with 
such  fiery  energy  as  would  have  made  an  allusion  to 
it  impossible,  if  he  had  been  free  and  not  averse  to 
the  plan.  He  was  not  free,  and  as  for  the  plan,  it 
struck  him  as  both  laughable  and  ridiculous,  but  he 
would  not  for  the  world  wound  the  sensitive  girl  beside 
him  more  than  she  had  wounded  herself,  and  so  when  at 
last  he  began  to  talk  with  her  it  was  simply  to  go  again 
over  the  whole  ground,  and  show  her  how  impossible  it 
was  for  him  to  take  the  money  or  for  her  to  give  it  to 
him.  He  appreciated  her  kind  intentions  ;  they  were 
just  like  her,  and  he  held  her  as  the  dearest  sister  a 
brother  ever  had  ;  but  she  must  keep  what  was  her  own, 
and  he  should  make  his  fortune  as  many  a  man  had  done 
before  him,  and  probably  rise  higher  eventually  than  if 
he  had  money  to  help  him  rise,  lie  had  not  yet  quite 
decided  what  he  should  do,  but  that  he  should  leave 
Rothsay  was  probable.  He  should,  however,  stay  long 
enough  to  see  that  her  affairs  were  in  a  way  to  be 
smoothly  managed,  and  to  see  her  fairly  installed  in  the 


THE    HEIRES9.  157 

Forrest  House  with  some  respectable  elderly  lady  as  her 
companion  and  protector.  Lawyer  Russell  would,  of 
course,  be  her  guardian,  and  the  administrator  of  the  es- 
tate. She  could  not  be  in  better  hands  ;  and  however 
far  away  he  might  be,  he  should  never  lose  his  interest 
in  her  or  cease  to  be  her  friend. 

"Meanwhile,"  he  said,  with  an  effort  to  smile,  <v  I 
shall  be  glad  if  you  will  allow  me  to  make  your  house 
my  home  until  my  arrangements  are  completed.  I  am 
not  so  proud  that  I  will  not  accept  that  hospitality  at 
your  hands." 

I  do  not  think  that  Rosamond  quite  comprehended 
his  last  words.  She  only  knew  that  he  would  not  hurry 
away  from  the  Forrest  House,  and  she  looked  up  eagerly, 
and  said: 

"I  am  so  glad,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  hate  me,  or 
ever  believe  I  meant  the  foolish  thing  I  said, — in  that 
way." 

"  No,  Rossie,"  he  answered  her,  "  I  am  far  from  hat- 
ing you,  and  how  can  I  think  you  meant  that  way  when 
you  have  repeatedly  declared  that  you  would  not  marry 
me  now  for  a  thousand  times  the  money  ?" 

"  No,  now  nor  ever  !"  Rosamond  exclaimed,  energet- 
ically; and  he  replied: 

"  Yes,  I  know;  men  generally  understand  when  a  girl 
tells  them  she  has  no  love  or  liking  for  them." 

There  was  something  peculiar  in  his  voice,  as  if  what 
she  said  hurt  him  a  little,  and  Rossie  detected  it,  and  in 
her  eagerness  to  set  him  right  involuntarily  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  flashing  upon  him  her  brilliant, 
beautiful  eyes,  in  which  the  tears  were  shining,  said  to  him : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Everard,  you  must  not  mistake  what  I  mean. 
I  do  like  you,  and  shall  for  ever  and  ever  ;  but  not  in  a 
marrying  way,  and  I  am  so  sorry  I  have  come  between 
you  and  your  inheritance.  You  have  made  me  see  that 
I  cannot  now  help  myself,  but  when  I  am  twenty-one,  if  I 
live  so  long,  so  help  me  Heaven,  Til  give  you  back  every 
dollar.  You  will  remember  that,  and  knowing  it  may  help 
you  to  bear  the  years  of  poverty  which  must  intervene." 

Again  the  long,  silken  lashes  were  lifted,  and  the 
dark,  bright  eyes  looked  into  his  with  a  look  which  sent 
a  strange,  sweet  thrill  through  every  nerve  of  the  young 
man's  body.  Rosamond  had  come  up  before  him  in  an 


158  THE    HEIRESS. 

entirely  new  character,  and  he  was  vaguely  conscious  of 
a  different  interest  in  her  now  from  what  he  had  felt  be- 
fore. It  was  not  love;  it  was  riot  a  desire  of  possession. 
He  did  not  know  what  it  was  ;  he  only  knew  that  his 
future  life  suddenly  looked  drearier  than  ever  to  him  if 
it  must  be  lived  away  from  her  and  her  influence.  She 
had  risen  to  her  feet  as  she  was  speaking,  and  he  rose 
also,  and  went  with  her  to  the  door,  and  let  her  out,  and 
watched  her  as  she  disappeared  down  the  stairs,  and  then 
went  back  to  his  task  of  sorting  papers,  with  the  germ 
of  a  new  feeling  stirring  ever  so  lightly  in  his  heart, — a 
sense  of  something  which  might  have  made  life  very 
sweet,  and  a  sense  as  well  of  bitter  loss. 

Full  of  shame  and  mortification  at  what  she  had  done, 
Rossie  resolved  to  go  at  once  to  Elm  Park  and  confess 
the  whole  to  Beatrice,  whom  she  found  at  home.  She 
was  thinking  of  the  Forrest  House  and  the  confusion 
caused  by  the  foolish  will  of  an  angry  old  man,  when 
Rossie  was  announced,  and,  sitting  down  at  her  feet, 
plunged  into  the  very  midst  of  her  trouble  by  saying  : 

"  Oh,  Miss  Beatrice,  I  have  come  to  tefl  you  some- 
thing which  makes  me  wish  I  was  dead.  What  do  you 
suppose  I  have  done  ?" 

"I  am  sure  I  cannot  guess,'1  Beatrice  replied,  and 
Rossie  continued,  "  I  asked  Mr.  Everard  to  marry  me, — • 
actually  to  marry  me  !" 

"  Wha-at !"  and  Beatrice  was  more  astonished  than 
she  had  ever  been  in  her  life.  "  Asked  Everard  Forrest 
to  marry  you !  Are  you  crazy,  or  a " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  Rossie  did  it  for 
her,  and  said, 

"  Yes,  both  crazy  and  a  fool,  I  verily  believe  !" 

"  But  how  did  it  happen  ?  What  put  such  an  idea 
into  your  head  ?" 

Briefly  and  rapidly  Rosamond  repeated  what  had 
passed  between  herself  and  Lawyer  Russell,  who  had 
asked  how  old  she  was,  and  on  learning  her  age  had  sug- 
gested her  marrying  the  young  man  and  thus  giving 
him  back  the  inheritance. 

"And  you  went  and  did  it,  you  little  goose,"  Beatrice 
said,  laughing  until  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks;  but 
when  she  saw  how  distressed  Rosamond  was  she  con- 
trolled her  merriment,  and  listened  while  Rossie  went  on: 


THE    HEIRESS.  159 

"Yes,  I  was  a  simpleton  not  to  know  any  better,  but 
I  never  meant  him  to  marry  me  as  he  would  marry  you 
or  some  one  he  loved  ;  that*  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  at 
all.  And  I  was  going  right  away  from  Forrest  House  to 
take  care  of  myself.  I  knew  I  could  find  something  to 
do,  as  nurse,  "or  waitress,  or  ladies'  maid,  if  nothing 
more  ;  and  I  meant  to  go  just  as  soon  as  the  ceremony 
was  over  and  leave  him  all  the  money,  and  never,  never 
come  back  to  be  in  the  way." 

"  And  you  told  him  this,  and  what  did  he  say  ?"  Bea- 
trice asked,  her  mirth  all  swept  away  before  the  great 
unselfishness  of  this  simple-hearted  girl,  who  went  on  : 

"I  did  not  tell  him  all  that  at  first.  I  asked  him  to 
marry  me,  just  as  I  would  have  asked  him  to  give  me  a 
glass  of  water,  and  with  as  little  thought  of  shame,  but 
the  shame  came  afterward  when  I  saw  what  I  had  done. 
I  can't  explain  how  it  came, — the  new  sense  of  things, — 
I  think  he  looked  it  into  me,  and  I  felt  in  an  instant 
as  if  I  had  been  blind  and  was  suddenly  restored  to 
sight.  It  was  as  if  I  had  been  walking  unclothed  in  my 
sleep,  fearlessly,  shamelessly,  because  asleep,  and  had 
suddenly  been  roused  to  consciousness  and  saw  a  crowd 
of  people  staring  and  jeering  at  me.  Oh,  it  was  so 
awful !  and  I  felt  like  tearing  my  hair  and  shrieking 
aloud,  and  I  said  so  many  things  to  make  him  believe  I 
did  not  mean  it  for  love  or  to  live  with  him." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  to  the  offer  ?  Did  he  accept 
or  refuse?"  Beatrice  asked,  and  Rosamond  replied  : 

"  I  do  not  think  he  did  either.  I  was  so  ashamed 
when  it  came  to  me,  and  talked  so  fast  to  make  him 
know  that  I  would  not  marry  him  for  a  thousand  times 
the  money,  and  did  not  love  him,  and  never  could." 

"  I'll  venture  to  say  he  was  not  especially  delighted 
with  such  assertions  ;  men  are  not  generally,"  Beatrice 
said,  laughingly,  but  Rosamond  did  not  comprehend  her 
meaning,  or  if  she  did,  she  did  not  pay  any  heed  to  it, 
but  went  rapidly  on  with  her  story,  growing  more  and 
more  excited  as  she  talked,  and  finishing  with  a  passion- 
ate burst  of  tears,  which  awakened  all  Bee's  sympathy, 
and  made  her  try  to  comfort  the  sobbing  girl,  who 
seemed  so  bowed  down  with  shame  and  remorse. 

Her  head  was  aching  dreadfully,  and  there  began  to 
steal  over  her  such  a  faint,  sick  feeling,  that  she  offered 


160  A    MIDNIGHT    HIDE. 


no  remonstrance  when  Bee  proposed  tbat  she  spend  the 
night  at  Elm  Park,  and  sent  word  to  that  effect  to  the 
Forrest  House. 

The  message  brought  Everard  at  once,  anxious  about 
Rosamond,  whom  he  wished  to  see.  But  she  declined  ; 
her  head  was  aching  too  hard  to  see  any  one,  she  said, 
especially  Everard,  who  must  despise  her  always.  Everard 
had  certainly  lost  the  child  Rossie  ;  and  the  world  had 
never  seemed  so  dreary  to  him  as  that  night  in  Bee's 
boudoir,  when  he  fairly  and  squarely  faced  the  future 
and  decided  what  to  do,  or  rather,  Bee  decided  for  him  ; 
and  with  a  feeling  of  death  in  his  heart  he  concurred  in 
her  opinion,  and  said  he  would  go  at  once  to  Josephine, 
and  telling  her  of  his  father's  death  and  will,  ask  her  to 
help  him  build  up  a  home  where  they  might  be  happy. 
He  was  not  to  show  her  how  he  shrank  back  and  shiv- 
ered even  while  taking  her  for  his  wife.  He  was  to  put 
the  most  hopeful  construction  on  everything,  and  see 
how  much  good  there  was  in  Josie. 

"  And  I  am  sure  she  will  not  disappoint  you,"  Bea- 
trice said,  infusing  some  of  her  own  bright  hopefulness 
into  Everard's  mind,  so  that  he  did  not  feel  quite  so  dis- 
couraged when  he  said  good-night  to  her,  telling  her  that 
he  should  start  on  the  next  morning's  train  for  Holbur- 
ton,  but  asking  her  not  to  tell  Rossie  of  Josephine  until 
she  heard  from  him. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A     MIDNIGHT     RIDE. 

T  was  after  midnight  when  Everard  reached 
Albany,  the  second  day  after  he  left  Roth- 
say.  There  the  train  divided,  the  New  York 
passengers  going  one  way,  and  the  Boston 
passengers  another.  Everard  was  among  the 
latter,  and  as  several  people  left  the  car  where  he  was, 
he  felicitated  himself  upon  having  an  entire  seat  for  the 
remainder  of  his  journey,  and  had  settled  himself  for  a 
sleep,  with  his  soft  traveling  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes, 


A    MIDNIGHT    RIDE.  161 

and  his  valise  under  bis  head,  when  the  door  opened  and 
a  party  of  young  people  entered,  talking  and  laughing, 
and  discussing  a  concert  which  they  had  that  evening 
attended.  As  there  was  plenty  of  room  Everard  did  not 
move,  but  lay  listening  to  their  talk  and  jokes  until 
another  party* of  two  came  hurrying  in  just  as  the  train 
was  moving.  The  gentleman  was  tall,  tine-looking,  and 
exceedingly  attentive  to  the  lady,  a  fair  blonde,  whom 
he  lifted  in  his  arms  upon  the  platform,  and  set  down 
inside  the  door,  saying  as  he  did  so  : 

"  There,  madam,  I  did  get  you  here  in  time,  though 
I  almost  broke  my  neck  to  do  it  ;  that  last  ice  you  took 
came  near  being  our  ruin." 

"Ice,  indeed  !  Better  say  that  last  glass  you  took," 
the  lady  retorted,  with  a  loud,  boisterous  laugh,  which 
made  Everard  shiver  from  head  to  foot,  for  he  recog- 
nized Josephine's  voice,  and  knew  it  was  his  wife  who 
took  the  unoccupied  seat  in  front  of  him,  gasping  and 
panting  as  if  wholly  out  of  breath. 

"  Almost  dead,"  she  declared  herself  to  be,  where- 
upon her  companion,  who  w^as  Dr.  Matthewson,  fanned 
her  furiously  with  his  hat,  laughing  and  jesting,  and 
attracting  the  attention  of  everybody  in  the  car. 

For  an  instant  Everard  half  rose  to  his  feet,  with  an 
impulse  to  make  himself  known,  but  something  held  him 
back,  and  resuming  his  reclining  attitude,  with  his  hat 
over  his  eyes  in  such  a  manner  that  he  could  see  without 
being  himself  seen,  he  prepared  to  watch  the  unsuspect- 
ing couple  in  front  of  him,  and  their  flirtation,  for  it 
seemed  to  be  that  in  sober  earnest. 

Josey  was  all  life  and  fun,  and  could  scarcely  keep 
still  a  moment,  but  turned,  and  twisted,  and  tossed  her 
head,  and  coquetted  with  the  doctor,  who,  with  his  arm 
on  the  seat  behind  her,  and  half  encircling  her,  bent  over 
her,  and  looked  into  her  beaming  face  in  the  most  lover- 
like  manner. 

Just  then  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  car  opened, 
and  the  conductor  appeared  with  his  lantern  and  demand 
for  tickets. 

"  I  shall  have  to  pay  extra,"  Matthewson  said. 
"You  ate  so  long  that  I  did  not  have  time  to  get  my 
tickets." 

'•  Nonsense,"  Josey  answered,  in  a  voice  she  evidently 


162  A    MIDNIGHT    BIDE. 

did  not  mean  to  have  heard,  but  which  nevertheless 
reached  Everard's  ear,  opened  wide  to  receive  it,  "  Non- 
sense !  This  one,"  nodding  towards  the  conductor,  "  never 
charges  me  anything  ;  we  have  lots  of  fun  together. 
I'll  pass  you  ;  put  up  your  money  and  see  how  I'll  man- 
age it." 

And  when  the  conductor  reached  their  seat  and 
stopped  before  it  and  threw  the  light  of  his  lantern  in 
Josey's  face,  he  bowed  very  blandly,  but  glanced  suspi- 
ciously at  her  companion,  who  was  making  a  feint  of 
getting  out  his  purse. 

"My  brother,"  Joseysaid,  with  a  mischievous  twinkle 
in  her  blue  eyes;  and  with  an  expressive  "all  right," 
the  conductor  passed  on  and  took  the  ticket  held  up  to 
him  by  the  man  whose  face  he  could  not  see,  and  at 
whom  Josephine  now  for  the  first  time  glanced. 

But  she  saw  nothing  familiar  in  the  outstretched 
form,  and  never  dreamed  who  it  was  lying  there  so  near 
to  her  and  watching  all  she  did.  So  many  had  left  at 
Albany  and  so  few  taken  their  places  that  not  more  than 
half  the  seats  were  occupied,  and  those  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  Josey  and  the  doctor  were  quite  vacant,  so 
the  young  lady  felt  perfectly  free  to  act  out  her  real 
nature  without  restraint ;  and  she  did  act  it  to  the  full, 
laughing,  and  flirting,  and  jesting,  and  jumping  just  as 
Everarct  had  seen  her  do  many  a  time,  and  thought  it 
charming  and  delightful.  Now  it  was  simply  revolting 
and  immodest,  and  he  glared  at  her  from  under  his  hat, 
with  no  feeling  of  jealousy  in  his  heart,  but  disgusted 
and  sorry  beyond  all  power  of  description  that  she  was 
his  wife.  Rossie  had  stood  boldly  up  before  him  and 
asked  him  to  marry  her,  but  in  her  innocent  face  there 
was  no  look  like  this  on  Josey's, — this  look  of  reckless- 
ness and  passion  which  showed  so  plainly  even  in  the 
dimness  of  the  car.  At  last  something  which  the  doctor 
said,  and  which  Everard  could  not  understand,  elicited 
from  her  the  exclamation  : 

"  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  and  I  a  married 
woman  ?" 

"The  more' s  the  pity,"  the  doctor  replied,  with  an 
expression  on  his  face  which,  had  Everard  cared  for  or 
even  respected  the  woman  before  him,  would  have 
prompted  him  to  knock  the  rascal  down.  "The  more's 


A    MIDNIGHT    RIDE.  163 

the  pity, — for  me,  at  least.  I've  called  myself  a  fool  a 
thousand  times  for  having  cut  off  my  nose  to  spite  my 
face." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  Josey  asked,  and  he  replied  : 

"  Oh,  nothing ;  only,  can't  you  get  a  divorce  ?  I 
don't  believe  he  cares  two  cents  for  you." 

"I  know  he  don't,"  and  Josey  shrugged  her  shoulders 
significantly  ;  "  but  so  long  as  he  keeps  me  in  money  I 
can  stand  it." 

"  And  does  he  do  that  pretty  well  nowadays  ?" 

"Yes,  so-so;  he  is  awfully  afraid  of  his  father, 
though,  and  I  do  not  blame  him.  Such  an  old  curmud- 
geon. I  saw  him  last  summer." 

"You  did?     Where?" 

"  Why,  at  Arnherst ;  at  Commencement.  I  went  to 
the  president's  reception,  and  made  Everard  introduce 
me,  and  tried  my  best  to  captivate  the  old  muff,  but  it 
was  of  no  use  ;  he  took  a  dreadful  dislike  to  me,  and 
expressed  himself  freely  to  his  son,  who  reported  to 
me " 

"  The  mean  coward  to  do  that,"  the  doctor  exclaimed, 
and  Josephine  replied,  "  No,  not  mean  at  all.  I  made 
him  tell  me  just  what  his  father  said.  I  gave  him  no 
peace  till  he  did,  for  I  wanted  the  truth,  so  as  to  know 
how  far  to  press  ray  claim  to  recognition  ;  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  that  my  best  plan  was  to  keep  quiet  a  while, 
and  let  matters  adjust  themselves.  Maybe  the  old  man 
will  die  ;  he  looked  apoplectic,  as  if  he  might  go  off  in 
some  of  his  fits  of  temper,  and  then  won't  I  make  the 
money  fly,  for  no  power  on  earth  shall  keep  me  from  the 
Forrest  House  then." 

"And  you'll  ride  over  everybody,  I  dare  say,"  the 
doctor  suggested,  and  she  answered  him,  "  You  bet  your 
head  on  that,"  the  slang  dropping  from  her  pretty  lips 
as  easily  and  naturally  as  if  they  were  accustomed  to  it, 
as  indeed  they  were. 

"  Is  Everard  greatly  improved  ?"  was  the  next  ques- 
tion, and  Josephine  replied,  "Some  would  think  so,  per- 
haps, but  I  look  upon  him  as  a  perfect  milksop.  I  don't 
believe  I  could  fall  in  love  with  him  now.  Why,  he  is 
just  as  quiet  and  solemn  as  a  graveyard  ;  never  laughs, 
nor  jokes,  nor  smokes,  nor  anything  ;  he  is  fine-looking, 


164  A    MIDNIGHT    HIDE. 

though,  and  I  expect  to  be  very  proud  of  him  when  I  am 
really  his  wife." 

"  Which  you  never  shall  be,  so  help  me  Heaven  !"  was 
Everard's  mental  ejaculation,  as  he  ground  his  teeth  to- 
gether. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind,  and  neither  Bee  nor  any 
one  else  could  change  it.  That  woman,  coquetting  so 
heartlessly  with  another  man,  and  talking  thus  of  him, 
should  never  even  be  asked  to  share  his  poverty,  as  he 
had  intended  doing.  He  would  never  voluntarily  go  into 
her  presence  again.  He  would  return  to  Rothsay,  tell 
his  story  to  Bee  and  see  what  he  could  do  to  help  Rossie, 
and  then  go  to  work  like  a  dog  for  money  with  which  to 
keep  the  woman  quiet.  And  when  the  day  came,  as 
come  it  must,  that  his  secret  was  known,  there  should  be 
a  separation,  for  live  with  her  a  single  hour  he  would 
not.  This  was  his  decision,  and  he  only  waited  for  the 
train  to  stop  in  order  to  escape  from  her  hateful  presence. 
But  it  was  an  express  and  went  speeding  on,  while  the 
two  in  front  of  him  kept  up  their  conversation,  which 
turned  at  last  on  Rosamond,  the  doctor  asking  "  if  she 
still  lived  at  the  Forrest  House." 

Josephine  supposed  so,  though  she  had  heard  nothing 
of  her  lately,  and  Dr.  Matthewson  asked  next  what  dis- 
position she  intended  to  make  of  her  when  she  was  mis- 
tress of  Forrest  House. 

"  That  depends,"  Josephine  replied,  with  her  favorite 
shrug  ;  "if  there  is  nothing  objectionable  in  her  she  can 
stay  ;  if  she  proves  troublesome,  she  will  go." 

Oh,  how  Everard  longed  to  shriek  out  that  the  girl 
who,  if  she  proved  troublesome,  was  to  go  from  Forrest 
House,  was  the  mistress  there,  with  a  right  to  dictate  as 
to  who  would  go  or  stay  ;  but  that  would  be  to  betray 
himself  ;  so  he  kept  quiet,  while  Josey,  growing  tired 
and  sleepy,  began  to  nod  her  golden  head,  which  drooped 
lower  and  lower,  until  it  rested  on  the  shoulder  of  Dr. 
Matthewson,  whose  arm  encircled  the  sleeping  girl  and 
adjusted  the  shawl  about  her,  for  it  was  growing  cold 
and  damp  in  the  car. 

Just  then  they  stopped  at  a  way  station,  and,  taking 
his  valise,  Everard  left  the  train,  which  after  a  moment 
went  whirling  on,  leaving  him  standing  on  the  platform 
alone  in  the  November  darkness. 


A    MIDNIGHT    RIDE.  165 

There  was  a  little  hotel  near  by,  where  he  passed  a 
few  hours,  until  the  train,  bound  for  Albany,  came  along, 
and  carried  him  swiftly  back  in  the  direction  of  home 
and  Rossie,  of  whom  he  thought  many  times,  seeing  her 
as  she  looked  standing  before  him  with  that  sweet  plead- 
ing expression  on  her  face,  and  that  musical  ring  in  her 
voice,  as  she  asked  to  be  his  wife.  How  her  eyes  haunted 
him, — those  brilliant  black  eyes,  so  full  of  truth,  and 
womanly  softness  and  delicacy.  He  could  see  them  now 
as  they  had  confronted  him,  fearlessly,  innocently,  at 
first,  but  changing  in  their  expression  as  the  sense  of 
what  she  had  done  began  to  dawn  upon  her,  bringing 
the  blushes  of  shame  to  her  tear  stained  face. 

"  Dear  little  Rossie  !"  he  thought;  "  if  I  were  free,  I 
believe  I'd  say  yes, — not  for  the  money,  but  for  all  she 
will  be  when  she  gets  older."  And  then  there  crept  over 
him  again  that  undefinable  sense  of  something  lost  which 
he  had  felt  when  Rossie  said  to  him,  "  I  would  not 
marry  you  now  for  a  thousand  times  the  money." 

He  was  growing  greatly  interested  in  Rossie,  and 
found  himself  very  impatient  during  the  last  few  hours 
of  his  journey.  What  had  been  done  in  his  absence,  he 
wondered,  and  was  she  more  reconciled  to  the  fortune 
which  ha«3  been  thrust  upon  her,  and  how  would  she  re- 
ceive him,  and  how  would  she  look  ?  She  was  not  hand- 
some, he  knew,  and  yet  her  face  was  very,  very  sweet; 
her  eyes  were  beautiful,  and  so  was  the  wavy,  nut-brown 
hair,  which  she  wore  so  becomingly  in  her  neck, — and  at 
the  thought  of  her  hair  there  came  a  great  lump  in 
Everard's  throat  as  he  remembered  the  sacrifice  the 
unselfish  girl  had  made  for  him  two  years  before. 

"  In  all  the  world  there  is  no  one  like  little  Rossie," 
he  said  to  himself,  and  felt  his  heart  beat  faster  with  a 
thrill  of  anticipation  as  the  train  neared  Rothsay  and 
stopped  at  last  at  the  station. 

Taking  his  valise,  which  was  not  heavy,  he  started 
at  once  for  the  Forrest  House,  which  he  reached  just  as 
it  was  growing  dark,  and  the  gas  was  lighted  in  the 
dining-room. 


166  TEE    NEW    LIFE    AT    ROTHSAY. 

CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE  NEW   LIFE  AT  KOTHSAY. 


IS  first  impulse  was  to  ring  like  any  stranger 
at  a  door  not  his  own,  but  thinking  to  him- 
self, "I  will  not  wound  her  unnecessarily," 
he  walked  into  the  hall,  and,  depositing  his 
satchel  and  hat  upon  the  rack,  went  to  the 
dining-room,  the  door  of  which  was  ajar,  so  that  the  first 
object  which  met  his  view  as  he  entered  was  Rossio, 
standing  under  the  chandelier,  but  so  transformed  from 
what  she  was  when  he  last  saw  her,  that  he  stood  for  an 
instant  wondering  what  she  had  done  ;  for,  instead  of  a 
child  in  short  frock  and  white  aprons,  with  loose  flowing 
hair,  he  saw  a  young  woman  in  a  long  black  dress,  with 
her  hair  twisted  into  a  large,  flat  coil,  and  fastened  with 
a  comb. 

The  morning  after  Everard's  departure  Rossie  had 
gone  with  Beatrice  to  order  a  black  dress,  which  she  in- 
sisted should  be  made  long.  "  I  am  through  with  short 
clothes  now,"  she  said  to  Beatrice.  "  I  feel  so  old  since 
I  did  that  shameful  thing,  that  for  me  to  dress  like  a 
child  would  be  as  absurd  as  for  you  to  do  it.  I  arn  not 
a  child.  I  am  at  least  a  hundred  years  old,  and  you 
know,  it  would  never  do  for  an  heiress  to  be  dressed  like 
a  little  girl.  How  could  I  discuss  business  with  my  law- 
yer in  short  clothes  and  bibs,"  and  she  laughed  hysteri- 
cally as  she  tried  to  force  back  her  tears. 

She  had  become  convinced  that  for  a  few  years  she 
must  submit  to  be  the  nominal  owner  at  least  of  the  For- 
rest property,  and  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  certain 
things  from  which  she  could  not  be  turned.  One  was 
long  dresses,  and  she  carried  her  point,  and  gave  orders 
concerning  some  minor  details  with  a  quiet  determina- 
tion which  astonished  Bee,  who  had  hitherto  found  her 
the  most  pliable  and  yielding  of  girls.  The  dress  had 
been  sent  home  on  the  very  afternoon  of  Everard's 
arrival,  and  without  a  thought  of  his  coming,  Ros- 
sie shut  herself  in  her  room,  and  began  the  work  of 
transformation,  first  by  twisting  up  her  flowing  hair, 


THE    NEW    LIFE    AT    ROTHSAY.  167 

which  added,  she  thought,  at  least  two  years  to  her  ap- 
pearance, though  she  did  not  quite  like  the  effect,  it  was 
so  unlike  herself.  But  the  long  dress  was  a  success,  and 
she  liked  the  sound  of  the  trailing  skirt  on  the  carpet, 
and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  more  than  she  had 
ever  done  before  in  her  life  at  one  time,  and  felt  quite 
satisfied  with  the  tout  ensemble  when  she  at  last  went 
down  to  the  dining-rooin,  where  she  was  standing  when 
Everard  came  in. 

She  had  been  very  lonely  during  his  absence,  and  she 
was  wondering  where  he  had  gone,  and  when  he  would 
return,  when  the  door  in  the  hall  opened,  and  he  was 
there  before  her. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  regarding  him  just  as  he  was 
studying  her  ;  then,  forgetting  everything  in  her  joy 
at  seeing  him  again,  she  went  forward  to  meet  him,  and 
giving  him  both  her  hands,  while  a  beautiful  flush  dyed 
her  cheeks,  said  to  him: 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  back;  it  was  so  lone- 
some here,  and  I  was  just  thinking  about  you." 

Her  greeting  was  so  much  more  cordial  than  Ever- 
ard had  expected  that  it  made  him  very  happy,  and  he 
kept  her  hands  in  his  until  she  drew  them  away  with  a 
sudden  wrench,  and  stepping  back  from  him,  put  on  the 
dignity  she  had  for  a  moment  dropped.  But  the  action 
became  her  and  her  long  dress,  and  Everard  looked 
closely  and  admiringly  at  her,  puzzled  to  know  just  what 
it  was  which  had  changed  her  so  much.  He  guessed 
that  she  was  thinking  of  that  scene  in  his  father's  room, 
but  he  meant  to  ignore  it  altogether,  and,  if  possible, 
put  her  on  her  old  familiar  footing  with  himself  ;  so, 
looking  at  her  from  head  to  foot,  he  said: 

"  What  is  it,  Rossie?  What  have  you  done  to  your- 
self ?  Pieced  down  your  gown,  or  what,  that  you  seem 
so  much  taller  and  grander  every  way, — quite  like  Bee,  in 
fact  ?  Yes,  you  have  got  on  a  train,  sure  as  guns,  and 
your  hair  up  in  a  comb  ;  that  part  I  don't  like  ;  the 
other  change  is  rather  becoming,  but  I'd  rather  see  you 
so  ;"  and  playfully  pulling  the  comb  from  her  head,  he 
let  the  wavy  hair  fall  in  masses  upon  her  neck  and 
shoulders.  "There,  that's  better;  it  gives  me  little 
Rossie  again,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  lose  my  sister." 

He  \yas  trying  to  reassure  her,  and   she   knew  it,  and 


163  THE    NEW    LIFE    AT    ROTHSAY. 

was  very  grateful  to  him  for  the  kindness,  and  said, 
laughingly,  that  she  put  up  her  hair  because  she  thought 
it  suited  the  long  dresses  which  she  meant  to  wear  now 
that  she  was  a  woman  of  business,  but  if  he  liked  it  in 
her  neck  it  should  be  worn  so  ;  and  then  she  asked  him 
of  his  journey,  and  if  he  was  not  tired  and  hungry. 

"Tired?  No;  but  cold  as  a  frog  and  hungry  as  a 
bear.  What  have  we  for  dinner?"  And  he  turned  to 
inspect  the  little  round  table  laid  for  one.  "  Nothing 
but  toast  and  tea.  Why,  that  would  starve  a  cat.  Did 
you  dine  in  the  middle  of  the  day  ?" 

Rosamond  colored  painfully  as  she  answered  : 

"  I  had  lunch,  as  usual.  I  was  not  hungry.  I  ana 
never  hungry  now,  and  just  have  tea  at  night." 

"  Rossie,"  and  Everard  laid  both  hands  on  her 
shoulders  and  looked  her  squarely  in  her  eyes,  "  Rossie," 
are  you  practicing  economy,  so  as  not  to  use  the  money 
you  think  belongs  to  me  ?" 

He  divined  her  motive,  for  it  was  the  fear  of  using 
the  Forrest  money  needlessly  which  was  beginning  to 
rule  her  life,  and  had  prompted  her  to  omit  the  usual 
dinner,  the  most  expensive  rneal  of  the  day,  and  have, 
instead,  plain  bread  and  butter,  or  toast  and  tea  ;  and 
Everard  read  the  truth  in  her  tell-tale  face,  and  said  : 

"  That  will  never  do,  and  will  displease  me  very 
much  ;  I  wish  you  to  live  as  you  ought,  and  if  it  is  on 
ray  account  you  are  trying  the  bread  and  water  system, 
I  am  here  now  and  hungry  as  a  fish,  so  you  can  indulge 
for  once  and  order  on  everything  there  is." 

There  was  not  much,  out  a  slice  of  cold  ham  was 
found,  and  some  cheese,  and  jam  and  pickles,  and  Axie 
made  a  delicious  cup  of  coffee,  and  brought  more  bread 
and  butter,  and  offered  to  bake  him  a  hoe  cake  if  he 
would  wait,  but  he  was  too  nearly  starved  to  wait  for 
hoe  cakes,  he  said,  and  he  took  his  father's  place  at  the 
table,  and  was  conscious  of  a  great  degree  of  comfort  in 
and  satisfaction  with  his  surroundings,  especially  with 
the  sight  of  the  young  girl  who  sat  opposite  to  him  and 
poured  his  coffee,  and  once  or  twice  laughed  heartily  at 
some  of  his  funny  remarks.  He  seemed  in  excellent 
spirits,  and  though  much  of  it  was  forced  for  Rossie's 
sake,  he  really  was  happier  than  he  hai  been  since  his 
father's  death.  His  future,  so  far  as  Josephine  was  con- 


THE    NEW    LIFE    AT    ROTHSAT.  169 

cerned,  was  settled.     He  should  never  attempt  to  live 
with  her  now. 

Ail  the  evening  he  sat  with  Rossie,  and  piled  the 
wood  upon  the  fire  until  the  flames  leaped  merrily  up  the 
chimney,  and  infused  a  genial  warmth  through  the 
large  room.  And  Rosamond  enjoyed  it  thoroughly  be- 
cause it  was  done  for  him.  She  would  never  have  added 
a  single  superfluous  chip  for  herself,  lest  it  should  dimin- 
ish what  was  one  day  to  go  back  to  him  ;  but  for  Ever- 
ard  she  would  almost  have  burned  the  house  itself  and 
felt  she  was  doing  her  duty. 

The  next  morning  he  spent  with  Beatrice,  to  whom 
he  told  the  story  of  the  midnight  ride  from  Albany. 

"After  seeing  and  hearing  what  I  did,  I  cannot  ask 
her  to  live  with  me  lest  she  should  consent,"  he  said,  and 
Beatrice  could  not  say  a  word  in  Josephine's  defense, 
but  asked  what  he  proposed  to  do.  Was  he  going  away, 
or  would  he  remain  in  Rothsay?  A  few  days  ago  Ev- 
erard  would  have  answered  promptly,  "  No,  anywhere 
but  here,  in  the  place  so  full  of  unpleasant  memories  ;" 
but  now  matters  had  somehow  changed.  That  coming 
home  the  previous  night,  that  bright  fire  on  the  hearth, 
and  more  than  all,  the  sweet  young  face  on  which  the 
firelight  shone,  and  the  eyes  which  had  looked  so  mol- 
estly  at  him  had  made  him  loth  to  leave  Rothsay  and  go 
away  from  the  shadowy  firelight  and  the  young  girl  with 
the  new  character  and  the  long  dress.  He  might  have 
left  the  child  Rossie  ia  the  hands  of  Beatrice  and  Law- 
yer Russell,  knowing  she  would  be  well  cared  for,  but 
to  leave  Miss  Hastings  was  quite  another  thing,  an  I 
when  Bee  questioned  him  of  his  intentions,  he  hesitated 
a  moment  and  was  glad  when,  in  her  usual  impetuous, 
helpful  way,  she  said  : 

"Let  me  advise  you  before  you  decide.  I  saw  Law- 
yer Russell  in  your  absence,  and  had  a  long  talk  with 
him,  and  he  thinks  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  stay 
in  the  office  where  you  are  and  accept  the  guardianship 
of  Rossie  and  the  administration  of  the  estate.  That 
will  bring  you  money  which  you  certainly  can  have  no 
scruples  in  taking,  as  it  will  be  honestly  earned  and  must 
go  to  some  one.  You  can  still  go  on  with  your  study  of 
law  and  write  your  essays  and  reviews,  and  so  have 
plenty  of  means  to  satisfy  Josephine,  if  money  will  do 


170  THE    NEW    LIFE    AT    ROTHS  AT. 

it.  I  do  not  suppose  you  will  live  at  the  Forrest  House, 
that  might  not  be  best;  but  you  will  be  in  the  vil- 
lage near  by  and  can  have  a  general  oversight  of  Rossie 
herself  as  well  as  her  affairs.  What  do  you  think  of  my 
plan?" 

The  idea  of  remaining  in  Rothsay  and  having  an 
oversight  of  Rosamond  was  not  distasteful  to  the  young 
man,  and  when  he  left  Beatrice  he  went  directly  to  his 
father's  office,  where  he  found  Lawyer  Russell,  who 
made  the  same  suggestion  with  regard  to  the  guardian- 
ship and  administration  of  the  estate  which  Beatrice 
had  done.  Of  course  it  was  necessary  that  Rosamond 
herself  should  be  seen,  and  the  two  men  went  to  the 
Forrest  House  to  consult  with  her  on  the  subject. 

They  found  her  more  than  willing,  and  in  due  time 
Everard  was  regularly  installed  as  guardian  to  Rosamond 
and  administrator  of  the  estate.  And  then  began  a  con- 
flict with  the  girl,  who  manifested  a  decision  of  charac- 
ter and  dignity  of  manner  with  which  Everard  found  it 
difficult  to  cope.  Siie  insisted  upon  knowing  exactly  how 
much  the  Forrest  property  was  estimated  at,  where  the 
money  was  invested,  and  when  interest  on  each  invest- 
ment was  due.  This  she  wrote  down  in  a  book  of  her 
own,  and  then  she  made  an  estimate  of  the  annual 
expenses  of  the  household  as  it  was  at  present  conducted. 

*  Don't  you  think  that  a  great  deal?"  she  asked. 

"  Father  did  not  find  it  too  much,  and  he  was  as 
close  about  expenditures  as  one  need  to  be,"  Everard 
replied  ;  and  Rosamond  continued  : 

"  Yes,  but  I  propose  to  reduce  everything." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Rossie?"  Everard  asked, 
greatly  puzzled  to  understand  this  girl,  who  seemed  so 
self-possessed  and  assured  in  her  long  dress,  to  which 
he  charged  everything  new  or  startling  in  her  conduct. 

Rosamond  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  replied  : 

"You  have  convinced  me  against  my  will  that  I  am 
at  present  the  lawful  heir  of  your  father's  property  ;  I 
have  tried  hard  not  to  accept  that  as  a  fact,  but  I  am 
compelled  to  do  so.  You  say  that  I  am  really  and  truly 
the  mistress  of  Forrest  House,  and  don't  mistresses  of 
houses  do  as  they  like  about  the  arrangement  of  mat- 
ters in  the  house  ?"  Everard  said  "  Q-enerally,  yes,"  and 
Rossie  went  on. 


THE    NEW    LIFE    AT    ROTH8AY.  171 

"  Well,  then,  this  is  what  I  mean  to  do.  First,  I 
shall  keep  a  strrct  account  of  the  income  and  a  strict 
account  of  the  outgo,  so  far  as  that  outgo  is  for  me  per- 
sonally. You  know  I  have  two  thousand  dollars  of '  my 
own,  and  I  shall  use  that  first,  and  by  the  time  that  is 
gone  I  hope  to  be  able  to  take  care  of  myself.  I  am 
going  to  have  some  nice,  middle-aged  lady  in  the  house 
as  companion  and  teacher,  and  shall  study  hard,  so 
that  in  a  year  or  two  at  most  I  shall  be  able  to  go  out 
as  governess  or  teacher  in  some  school.  My  mind  is 
quite  made  up.  There  are  some  things  I  cannot  do, 
and  there  are  some  things  I  can,  and  this  is  one  of 
them.  I  shall  have  the  teacher  and  get  an  education, 
and  meanwhile  shall  live  as  economically  as  pos- 
sible ;  and  I  wish  you  to  sell  the  horses  and  carriage, 
too  ;  I  shall  never  use  them,  and  horses  cost  so  much  to 
keep.  I  like  to  walk,  and  have  good  strong  feet  and 
ankles, — great  big  ones,  you  used  to  say,"  and  she  tried  to 
smile,  but  there  was  a  tear  on  her  long  eyelashes  as  she 
referred  to  a  past  which  had  been  so  pleasant  and  free 
from  care.  "  Apart  of  the  land  is  a  park,"  she  went  on, 
"and  does  not  need  much  attention  except  to  pick  up 
and  prune,  and  cut  the  grass  occasionally.  Uncle  Abel 
told  me  so.  I  have  talked  with  him  ever  so  much,  and 
he  says  if  I  give  him  three  dollars  more  a  month  he  can 
do  all  there  is  to  be  done  in  the  grounds,  if  he  does  not 
have  the  horses  to  look  after,  so  I  shall  keep  him,  and 
his  little  grandson,  Jim,  to  do  errands  and  wait  on  the 
table  and  door,  and  Aunt  Axie  to  work  in  the  house,  and 
Bend  the  rest  away." 

"Why,  Rosamond,"  Everard  said,  staring  at  her  in 
amazement,  "  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about  ;  Aunt  Axie  cannot  do  all  the  work." 

"Nor  will  she,"  Rossie  said  ;  "I  am  going  to  shut  up 
most  of  the  house,  and  only  use  two  rooms  up  stairs,  one 
for  myself  and  one  for  the  teacher,  and  the  dining-room 
down  stairs,  and  little  sitting-room  off  for  any  calls  I 
may  have.  I  can  take  care  of  my  own  room  and  the 
teacher's,  too,  if  she  likes." 

She  had  settled  everything,  and  it  only  remained  for 
Everard,  as  her  guardian,  to  acquiesce  in  her  wishes  when 
he  found  that  nothing  which  he  could  say  had  power  to 
change  her  mind.  She  had  developed  great  decision  of 


172  TEE    NEW    LIFE    AT    ROTHS  AT. 

character,  and  so  clear  a  head  for  business  in  all  its  de- 
tails, that  Everard  told  her,  laughingly,  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  him  to  cheat  her  in  so  much  as  a  penny 
without  being  detected.  He  was  intensely  interested  in 
this  queer  girl,  as  he  styled  her  to  himself,  and  so  far  as 
was  consistent  with  her  good,  did  everything  she  asked, 
proving  himself  the  most  indulgent  of  guardians  and 
faithful  of  administrators.  Together  with  Beatrice  he 
inquired  for  and  found,  in  Cincinnati,  a  Mrs.  Markham, 
a  lady,  and  the  widow  of  an  English  curate,  who  seemed 
exactly  fitted  for  the  situation  at  Forrest  House  as  Ros- 
sie's  teacher  and  companion.  All  Rossie's  wishes  with 
regard  to  reducing  the  expenditures  of  the  household 
were  carried  out,  with  one  exception.  Everard  insisted 
that  she  should  keep  one  of  the  horses,  which  she  could 
drive,  and  the  light  covered  carriage  which  had  been 
Mrs.  Forrest's.  To  this  Rossie  consented,  but  sent  away 
three  of  the  negroes,  and  shut  up  all  the  rooms  not  abso- 
lutely essential  to  her  own  and  Mrs.  Markham's  comfort. 
In  this  way  she  would  save  both  fuel  and  lights,  and  the 
wear  of  furniture,  she  said,  and  to  save  for  Everard  had 
become  a  sort  of  mania  with  her.  And  when  he  saw  he 
could  not  move  her,  Everard  humored  her  whims  and 
suffered  her  in  most  things  to  have  her  way.  He 
had  a  cheap,  quiet  boarding-house  in  town,  where  he  was 
made  very  comfortable  by  his  landlady,  who  felt  a  little 
proud  of  having  Judge  Forrest's  son  in  her  family,  even 
if  he  were  disowned  and  poor.  Blood  was  better  than 
money,  and  lasted  longer,  she  said,  and  as  Everard  had 
the  bluest  of  blood,  she  made  much  of  him,  and  petted 
him  as  he  had  never  been  petted  in  his  life.  And  so, 
under  very  favorable  auspices,  began  the  new  life  of  the 
two  persons  with  whom  this  story  has  most  to  do. 

So  far  as  Rossie  was  concerned  it  bade  fair  to  be  very 
successful.  Mrs.  Markham  was  both  mother  and  friend 
to  the  young  girl,  in  whom  she  was  greatly  interested. 
A  thorough  scholar  herself,  she  had  a  marvelous  power 
of  imparting  her  information  to  others,  and  Rossie  gave 
herself  to  study  now  with  an  eagerness  and  avidity  which 
astonished  her  teacher,  and  made  her  sometimes  try  to 
hold  her  back,  lest  her  health  should  fail  from  too  close 
application,  JBut  Rossie  seemed  to  grow  stronger,  and 


THE    NEW    LIFE    AT    BOTHSAY.  173 

fresher,  and  rounder  every  day,  notwithstanding  that  all 
her  old  habits  of  life  were  changed. 

Every  day  Beatrice  came  to  the  Forrest  House, 
evincing  almost  as  much  interest  in  Rosamond's  educa- 
tion as^  Mrs.  Markharn  herself,  and  giving  her  a  great 
deal  of  instruction  with  regard  to  her  French  accent  and 
music.  Every  Sunday  Everard  dined  with  her,  and 
called  upon  her  week  days  when  business  required  that 
he  should  do  so  ;  and  he  looked  forward  to  these  visits 
wilh  the  eagerness  of  a  schoolboy  going  home.  In  some 
respects  Everard  was  very  happy,  or,  at  least,  content, 
during  the  first  months  of  the  new  life.  He  was  honor- 
ably earning  a  very  fair  livelihood,  and  at  the  same  time 
advancing  with  his  profession.  No  young  man  in  town 
was  more  popular  than  himself,  for  the  people  attached 
no  blame  to  him  for  his  father's  singular  will,  which 
they  thought  unjustifiable.  There  was,  of  course,  always 
present  with  him  a  dread  of  the  day  which  must  come 
when  his  secret  would  be  known, — but  Hoi  burton  was  an 
out-of-the-way  place,  where  his  friends  never  visited,  and 
it  might  be  months  or  even  years  before  Josephine  heard 
of  his  father's  death,  and  until  that  time  he  meant  to  be 
as  happy  as  he  could.  Josephine  did  not  trouble  him 
often  with  letters  which  he  felt  obliged  to  answer.  He 
took  care  to  supply  her  frequently  with  money,  which  he 
sent  in  the  form  of  drafts,  without  any  other  message,  and 
she  seemed  satisfied.  He  had  sold  his  horse,  his  stock 
was  yielding  him  something  regularly  now,  and  with  the 
percentage  due  him  for  his  services  as  administrator,  he 
was  doing  very  well,  and  would  have  been  quite  content 
but  for  that  undetinable  sense  of  loss  ever  present  with 
him.  He  had  lost  the  child  Rossie,  and  he  wanted  her 
back  again,  with  the  short  gingham  dress  and  white  apron, 
and  cape  bonnet,  and  big  boots,  and  little  tanned  hands  ; 
wanted  the  girl  whom  he  had  teased,  and  petted,  and 
domineered  over  at  will  ;  who  used  to  romp  the  livelong 
day  with  the  dogs  and  cats,  and  teach  even  the  colts  and 
calves  to  run  and  race  with  her  ;  who  used  to  chew  gum, 
and  burst  the  buttons  off  her  dress,  and  eat  green  apples 
and  plums,  and  cry  with  the  stomach-ache.  All  these 
incidents  of  the  past  as  connected  with  Rossie  came  back 
to  him  so  vividly,  that  he  often  said  to  himself  : 

"  What  has  become  of  the  child  Rossie  ?" 


174  THE    NEW    LIFE    AT    ROTHSAY. 

She  had  been  such  a  rest,  such  a  comfort  to  him,  and 
in  one  sense  she  was  a  comfort  now,  at  least  she  was  a 
study,  an  excitement  and  a  puzzle  to  him,  and  lie  always 
found  himself  looking  forward  to  the  visits  which  he 
made  her  with  an  immense  amount  of  interest.  Every 
Sunday  he  dined  with  her,  and  walked  with  her  to 
church  in  the  evening,  and  sat  in  his  father's  pew,  and 
walked  back  with  her  and  Mrs.  Markham  to  the  house 
after  service  was  over,  and  said  good-night  at  the  door, 
and  wondered  vaguely  if  women  like  Mrs.  Markham 
always  went  to  church,  if  they  never  had  a  neadache,  or 
a  cold,  and  were  compelled  to  stay  at  home.  Occasion- 
ally, too,  he  went  to  the  Forrest  House  on  business,  ask- 
ing only  for  Rosamond  ;  but  Mrs.  Markham  always 
appeared  first,  coming  in  as  if  by  accident,  and  seating 
herself,  with  the  shawl  she  was  knitting,  far  off  by  the 
window,  just  where  she  could  see  what  was  done  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  After  a  little  Rosamond  would 
appear,  in  her  long  black  gown,  which  trailed  over  the 
carpet  as  she  walked,  and  exasperated  Everard  with  the 
sound  of  its  trailing,  for  to  that  he  charged  the  metamor- 
phosis in  Rossie.  It  was  the  cause  of  everything,  and 
had  changed  her  into  the  quiet,  dignified  Miss  Hastings, 
to  whom  it  was  impossible  to  speak  as  he  used  to  speak 
to  Rossie. 

One  day  as  he  was  looking  from  his  office  window  he 
saw  Mrs.  Markham  going  by  for  the  long  walk  she  was 
accustomed  to  take  daily.  He  had  seen  her  pass  that 
way  frequently  with  Rosamond  at  her  side,  but  Rossie 
was  not  with  her  now;  and  though  Everard  had  been  at 
the  Forrest  House  the  night  before,  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered a  little  matter  of  business  which  made  it  very 
necessary  for  him  to  go  again,  and  was  soon  walking 
rapidly  up  the  long  avenue  to  his  old  home.  Aunt  Axie 
let  him  in,  and  went  for  Rossie,  who  came  to  him  at 
once, — evincing  some  surprise  at  seeing  him  again  so 
soon,  and  asking,  rather  abruptly,  if  there  was  more 
business. 

"Yes,"  and  he  blushed  guiltily,  and  felt  half  vexed 
with  her  for  standing  up  so  straight  and  dignified,  with 
her  hands  holding  to  the  back  of  a  chair,  while  he  ex- 
plained that  the  Ludlow  mortgage  would  be  due  in  a  few 
days,  and  asked  if  she  would  like  to  have  it  renewed,  as 


THE    NEW    LIFE    AT    ROTHSAT.  175 

it  could  be,  or  have  the  money  paid  and  invested  some- 
where else  at  a  higher  rate  ?  He  had  forgotten  to  men- 
tion it  the  previous  night,  he  said,  and  as  she  had 
expressed  a  wish  to  know  just  how  the  moneys  were 
invested,  he  thought  best  to  come  again  and  consult  her. 

Rossie  did  not  care  in  the  least  ;  she  would  leave  it 
entirely  to  him,  she  said,  and  then  waited,  apparently  for 
him  to  go.  But  Everard  was  in  no  haste,  and  passing 
her  a  chair  he  said: 

"  Sit  down,  Rossie.  I  am  not  going  just  yet.  Now 
that  I  have  you  to  myself  for  a  few  moments,  I  wish  to 
ask  how  long  this  state  of  things  is  to  go  on  ?" 

She  did  not  know  at  all  what  he  meant,  and  looked 
at  him  wonderingly  as  she  took  the  proffered  chair  and 
said,  "  What  state  of  things?  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

*'  I  mean  the  high  and  mighty  air  you  have  put  on 
toward  me.  Why,  you  are  so  cold  and  dignified  that 
one  can't  touch  you  with  a  ten-foot  pole,  and  this  ought 
not  to  be.  I  have  a  right  to  expect  something  different 
from  you,  Rossie.  I  dare  say  I  can  guess  in  part  what 
is  the  matter.  You  are  always  thinking  of  that  day  you 
came  to  me  in  father's  room  and  said  what  you  did.  But 
for  Heaven's  sake,  forget  it.  I  have  never  thought  of  it 
as  a  thing  of  which  you  need  feel  ashamed.  You  had 
tried  every  way  to  give  me  the  money,  and  when  that 
idea  was  suggested  you  seized  upon  it  without  a  thought 
of  harm,  and  generously  offered  to  marry  me  and  then 
run  away,  and  so  reinstate  me  in  my  rights." 

Rotsie's  face  was  scarlet,  but  she  did  not  speak,  and 
he  continued: 

"  It  was  a  noble,  unselfish  act,  and  just  like  you,  and 
I  don't  think  a  whit  the  less  of  you  for  it.  I  know  you 
did  not  mean  it  that  way,  as  you  assured  me  so  vehe- 
mently. I  am  your  brother.  You  have  known  me  as 
such  ever  since  you  can  remember  anything  here,  and  my 
little  sister  was  very  dear  to  me,  and  I  miss  her  so  much 
now  that  I  have  lost  her." 

"  Lost  her,  Mr.  Everard  !  Lost  me  !  No,  you  haven't," 
Rosamond  said,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears,  which  shone 
like  stars,  as  Everard  went  on  : 

"  Yes,  I  have.  I  lost  her  when  you  put  on  those  long 
dresses  and  began  to  meet  me  in  such  a  formal  way,  with 
that  prim,  old  duenna  always  present,  as  if  she  Was  afraid 


176  BEE'S    FAMILY. 

I  was  going  to  eat  you  up.  Mrs.  Markham  is  very  nice, 
no  doubt,  but  I  don't  like  that  in  her.  It  may  be  Eng- 
glish  propriety,  but  it  is  not  American.  I'm  not  going 
to  hurt  you,  and  I  want  sometimes  to  see  you  here  alone 
and  talk  freely  and  cozily,  as  we  used  to  talk, — about 
your  cats,  if  you  like,  I  don't  care  what,  if  it  brings  you 
back  to  me,  for  you  don't  know  how  I  long  for  the  child 
whom  I  used  to  tease  so  much." 

He  stopped  talking,  and  Rossie  was  almost  beauti- 
ful, with  the  bright  color  in  her  cheeks  and  the  soft 
light  in  her  eyes,  which  were  full  of  tears,  as  she  said, 
impulsively,  "  You  shall  have  the  child  Rossie  again, 
Mr.  Everard.  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  what  you 
have.  It  will  make  it  so  much  easier  now  to  see  you. 
I  was  always  thinking  of  that,  and  feeling  that  you  were 
thinking  of  it,  too,  and  I  am  happy  to  know  you  are  not. 
I  don't  wish  to  be  stiif  and  distant  with  you,  and  you 
may  come  as  often  as  you  choose,  and  Mrs.  Markhara 
need  not  always  be  present, — that  was  as  much  my  idea 
as  hers  ;  but  the  long  dress  I  must  wear  now  ;  it  suits  me 
better  than  the  short  clothes  which  showed  my  foot  so 
much.  You  know  how  you  used  to  tease  me."  She  was  be- 
ginning to  seem  like  herself  again,  and  Everard  enjoyed 
himself  so  well  that  he  staid  until  Mrs.  Markham  re- 
turned, and  when  at  last  he  left,  it  was  with  a  feeling 
that  he  liked  the  graceful,  dignified  young  girl  almost 
as  well  as  he  had  once  liked  the  child  Rossie. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
BEE'S  FAMILY. 

FEW  days  after  Everard's  interview  with 
Rossie,  Beatrice  went  to  New  York,  where 
she  spent  the  winter,  returning  home  early  in 
April,  and.  bringing  with  her  a  dark-eyed, 
dark-haired,  elfish-looking  little  girl,  whom 
she  called  Trixcy,  and  whose  real  name  was  Beatrice  Bel- 
knap  Morton.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  missionary  to  the 
Kcejee  Islands,  who  had  brought  his  invalid  wife  home 


BEE '5    FAMILY.  177 

to  America,  hoping  the  air  of  the  Vermont  hills  might 
restore  life  and  health  to  her  worn-out,  wasted  frame. 
Bee  did  not  know  of  his  return,  and  saw  him  first  at  a 
missionary  meeting  which  she  attended  with  the  friend 
at  whose  house  she  was  stopping. 

"  The  Rev.  Theodore  Morton  will  now  tell  us  some- 
thing of  his  labors  among  the  Feejees,"  the  presiding 
clergyman  said,  and  Bee,  who  was  sitting  far  back  near 
the  door,  rose  involun  arily  to  her  feet  in  order  to  see 
more  distinctly  the  man  who  was  just  rising  to  address 
the  audience,  and  who  stood  before  them,  tall,  erect,  and 
perfectly  self-possessed,  as  if  addressing  a  crowded  New 
York  house  had  been  the  business  of  his  life. 

Was  it  her  Theo,  whom  she  had  sent  from  her  to  the 
woman  in  Vermont,  more  willing  than  herself  to  share 
his  toils  and  privations  in  a  heathen  land.  That  Theo 
had  been  spare  and  thin,  with  light  beard  and  sandy 
hair  ;  this  man  was  broad-shouldered,  with  well-developed 
physique,  and  the  hair,  which  lay  in  curls  around  his 
massive  brow,  was  a  iich  chestnut  brown,  as  was  the 
heavy  beard  upon  his  cheek.  It  could  not  be  Theo,  she 
though,  as  she  sank  back  into  her  seat  ;  but  the  moment 
she  heard  the  deep,  musical  tones  of  the  voice  which 
had  once  a  power  to  thnil  her,  she  knew  that  it  was  he, 
and  listened  breathlessly  while  he  told  of  his  work  in 
those  islands  of  the  sea,  and  by  his  burning  eloquence 
and  powers  of  speech  stirred  up  his  hearers  to  greater 
interest  in  the  cause.  He  loved  his  work  because  it  was 
his  Master's,  and  loved  the  poor,  benighted  heathen,  and 
he  only  came  home  because  of  the  sick  wife  and  little 
ones,  who  needed  change  of  scene  and  air. 

Where  was  his  wife,  Bee  wondered,  and  when  the 
meeting  was  over  she  drove  to  the  house  of  a  clergyman 
who  she  knew  kept  a  kind  of  missionary  hotel,  and  from 
him  learned  the  address  of  the  Rev.  Theodore  Morton. 
It  was  not  at  an  uptown  hotel,  but  at  a  second-rate 
boarding-house  on  Eighth  street,  where  rooms  and  board 
were  cheap,  and  there,  on  the  third  floor  back,  she  found 
Mrs.  Theodore  Morton,  the  school-mistress  from  Ver- 
mont, who  had  so  offended  her  taste  with  spectacles  and 
a  brown  alpaca  dress.  The  landlady  had  bidden  her  go 
directly  to  the  room,  where  she  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
then  stood  listening  to  a  sweet,  childish  voice  singing  a 

8* 


178  BEE'S     FAMILY. 

lullaby  to  a  baby.  Again  she  knocked,  and  this  time  the 
voice  said  "  Come  in,"  and  she  went  in,  and  found  a  little 
girl  of  five  years  old,  with  black  hair  and  eyes,  and  a 
dark,  saucy,  piquant  face,  seated  in  a  low  rocking-chair, 
and  holding  in  her  short,  fat  arras  a  pale,  sickly  baby  of 
four  months  or  thereabouts,  which  she  was  trying  to 
hush  to  sleep.  Near  her,  in  an  arm-chair,  sat  a  round, 
rosy-cheeked  little  girl,  who  might  have  been  three  years 
old,  though  her  height  indicated  a  child  much  younger 
than  that.  On  the  bed,  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  and 
apparently  asleep,  lay  a  woman,  emaciated  and  thin, 
with  streaks  of  gray  in  the  long,  black  hair  floating  in 
masses  over  the  pillow.  Bee  thought  she  must  have 
made  a  mistake,  but  something  in  the  blue  eyes  of  the 
chubby  girl  in  the  chair  arrested  her  attention,  and  she 
said  to  the  elf  with  the  baby  in  her  arms  : 

"  Is  Mrs.  Morton  here, — Mrs.  Theodore  Morton  ?" 

"  Yes,  that's  ma, — on  the  bed.  She's  sick  ;  she's  al- 
ways sick.  Turn  in,  but  don't  make  a  noise,  'cause  I'se 
tryin'  to  rock  baby  brother  to  seep,  like  a  good  'ittle 
dirl." 

"  An'  I's  dood,  too,"  chirped  the  dumpling  in  the  high 
chair.  "I've  climbed  up  here  to  det  out  of  the  way,  an* 
not  wake  mamma  an'  make  her  head  ache,  an'  papa's 
goin'  to  bring  me  some  tandy,  he  is,  when  he  turns  from 
the  meetin'." 

There  was  no  mistaking  that  blue-eyed,  fair-haired 
child  for  other  than  Theodore  Morton's,  and  Beatrice 
stooped  down  and  kissed  her  round,  rosy  cheek,  and 
asked  : 

"  What  is  your  name,  little  one  ?" 

"Mamie, — Mamie  Morton  ;  but  dey  calls  me  Bunchie, 
'cause  I's  so  fat,  an'  I's  mamma's  darliri',  and  was  tree 
'ears  ol  1  next  week,"  was  the  reply  ;  and  then  Bee 
turned  to  the  elf,  and  laying  her  hand  on  the  jet-black 
hair,  said  : 

"  And  your  name  is  what  ?" 

"  Trixey  everybody  calls  me  but  papa,  who  sometimes 
says  Bee  ;  but  that  ain't  my  very  name.  It's  ever  so 
long,  with  many  B's  in  it,"  was  the  reply,  and  Bee's 
heart  gave  a  great  bound,  as  she  said  : 

"  Is  it  Beatrice  ?" 

"  Yes,  au'  more  too,  Beatrice  sometinV 


BEE nS     FAMILY.  179 

"  Beatrice  Belknap,  perhaps,"  guessed  the  lady,  and 
the  child  replied: 

"  That's  it,  but  how  did  you  know  ?"  and  the  great 
eyes,  so  very  black  and  inquisitive,  looked  wonderingly 
at  Bee,  who  answered: 

"  I  am  Beatrice  Belknap,  the  lady  for  whom  you  were 
named,  and  I've  come  to  see  you.  I  used  to  know  your 
father.  Is  he  well  ?" 

"  Papa  ?  Yes,  he's  very  well,  but  mamma,"  and  the 
child  put  on  a  very  wise  and  confidential  look  as  she 
added  in  a  whisper,  "mamma's  shiffless  all  the  time." 

Bee  could  not  repress  a  smile  at  this  quaint  form  of 
speech,  and  she  asked: 

"  And  do  you  take  care  of  baby  ?  Is  there  no  nurse  ?" 

"  We  had*Leah  over  home,"  Trixey  said,  "  but  she 
couldn't  come  with  us,  'cause  we're  so  poor,  an'  papa  has 
no  money." 

"But  he  bnyed  me  some  yed  soos,"  Bunchie  said, 
sticking  up  her  little  feet,  encased  in  a  new  pair  of  red 
morocco  shoes,  the  first  she  had  ever  had  or  probably 
seen. 

How  Beatrice's  heart  yearned  over  these  little  ones 
who  had  known  only  poverty,  and  how  she  longed  to 
lavish  upon  them  a  part  of  her  superfluous  wealth. 
There  was  a  stir  on  the  bed  ;  the  sleeper  was  waking, 
and  a  faint  voice  called: 

"  Trixey,  are  you  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma.  I've  rocked  brother  to  seep,"  Trixey 
said,  starting  up,  but  holding  fast  to  the  baby  as  a  cat 
holds  to  its  kitten.  '*  There's  a  lady  here,  mamma,  corned 
to  see  us,"  the  child  continued,  and  then  Mrs.  Morton 
roused  quickly,  and  turning  on  her  side  fixed  her  great 
sunken  eyes  inquiringly  on  Beatrice,  who  stepped  for- 
ward, and  with  that  winning  sweetness  and  grace  so 
natural  to  her,  said: 

"  I  doubt  if  you  remember  me,  Mrs.  Morton,  as  you 
only  saw  me  once,  and  that  for  a  few  moments,  before 
the  Guide  sailed  from  here  six  years  ago.  I  am  an  old 
friend  of  your  husband's.  I  met  him  in  Paris  first  and 
many  times  after  in  America.  Perhaps  you  have  heard 
him  speak  of  Miss  Beatrice  Belknap  ?" 

"  Yes,  Trixey  was  named  for  you.  It  was  kind  in 
you  to  call,"  Mrs.  Morton  said,  and  now  she  sat  upon  the 


180  BEE'S     FAMILY. 

Bide  of  the  bed  and  began  to  bind  up  her  long  black  hair, 
\vhich  had  fallen  in  her  neck. 

"Let  me  do  that,"  Bee  said,  as  she  saw  how  the  ex- 
ertion of  raising  her  arms  made  the  invalid  cough  ;  and 
drawing  off  her  gloves,  her  white  hands,  on  which  so 
many  costly  jewels  were  shining,  were  soon  arranging 
and  twisting  the  long  hair  which,  though  mixed  with 
gray,  was  very  glossy  and  luxuriant.  "You  have  nice 
hair,  and  so  much  of  it,"  she  said,  and  Mrs.  Morton 
replied  : 

"Yes,  it  is  very  heavy  even  yet,  and  is  all  I  have 
left  of  my  youth,  though  I  am  not  so  very  old,  only 
thirty  ;  but  the  life  of  a  missionary's  wife  is  not  con- 
ducive to  the  retaining  of  one's  good  looks." 

"  Was  it  so  very  dreadful  ?"  Bee  asked,  a  little  curi- 
ous about  the  life  which  might  have  been  her  own. 

"  Not  dreadful,  but  hard  ;  that  is,  it  was  very  hard 
on  me,  who  was  never  strong,  though  I  seemed  so  to 
strangers.  I  could  not  endure  much,  and  was  sick  all 
the  way  out,  so  sick  that  I  used  to  wish  I  might  die  and 
be  buried  in  the  sea.  Then  Trixey  came  so  soon,  and  the 
care  of  her,  and  the  food,  and  the  climate,  and  the  man- 
ner of  living  there,  and  the  terrible  homesickness  !  Oh, 
I  was  so  homesick,  at  first,  that  I  should  surely  have 
died,  if  Theo  had  not  been  so  good.  He  was  always 
kind,  and  tried  to  spare  me  every  way." 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  he  did,"  Bee  said  ;  feeling  at  the 
pame  time  a  kind  of  pity  for  Theo,  who,  for  six  years, 
had  spared  and  been  kind  to  this  woman,  after  having 
known  and  loved  her,  Beatrice  Belknap. 

There  was  a  great  difference  between  these  two 
women  ;  one,  bright,  gay,  sparkling,  full  of  life  and 
health,  with  wealth  showing  itself  in  every  part  of  her 
elegant  dress,  from  the  India  shawl  which  she  had 
thrown  across  the  chair,  to  the  sable  muff  which  had 
fallen  on  the  floor  ;  the  other,  sick,  tired,  disheartened, 
old  before  her  time  ;  and,  alas,  habited  in  the  same 
brown  alpaca  in  which  she  had  sailed  away,  and  which 
had  been  so  obnoxious  to  Beatrice.  The  material  had 
been  the  best  of  the  kind,  and  after  various  turnings  and 
fixings,  had  been  made  at  last  into  a  kind  of  wrapper, 
which  was  trimmed  with  a  part  of  another  old  brown 
dress  of  a  differcMit  shade.  Nothing  could  be  more  unbe- 


BEE'S     FAMILY.  181 

coming  to  that  thin,  sallow  face,  and  those  dark,  hollow 
eyes,  than  that  dress,  and  never  was  contrast  greater  be- 
tween two  women  than  that  revealed  by  the  mirror 
which  hung  just  opposite  the  bed  where  Mrs.  Morton 
was  sitting,  with  Beatrice  standing  by  her.  Both  looked 
in  it  together,  and  met  each  other's  eyes,  arid  must  have 
thought  of  the  same  thing,  for  Mrs.  Morton  at  once 
changed  her  seat  where  she  could  not  see  herself,  and  as 
the  hair  was  put  up  Beatrice  also  sat  down,  and,  without 
seeming  to  do  so,  inspected  very  minutely  the  woman 
who  was  Theodore  Morton's  wife. 

She  was  well  educated, — and  she  was  well  born,  too, 
being  the  daughter,  and  granddaughter,  and  great-grand- 
daughter of  clergymen,  while  on  her  mother's  side  she 
came  from  merchants  and  lawyers,  and  very  far  back 
boasted  a  lieutenant-governor.  But  she  lacked  that 
softness,  and  delicacy,  and  refinement  of  manner  which 
was  Bee's  great  charm.  She  had  angles  and  points,  and 
was  painfully  frank  and  outspoken,  and  never  practiced 
a  deception  in  her  life,  or  kept  back  anything  she  thought 
she  ought  to  say,  or  flinched  from  any  duty.  In  short, 
she  was  New  England  to  tne  back-bone,  and  showed  it 
in  everything.  Vermont,  or  rather  the  little  town  of 
Bronson,  where  she  was  born,  was  placarded  all  over  her, 
just  as  Paris  and  New  York  were  written  all  over  Bee, 
and  she  rejoiced  in  it  and  was  proud  of  her  birthplace. 
Beatrice's  presence  there  was  evidently  a  trouble  and  an 
embarrassment.  When  Theodore  Morton  went  to  her 
and  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  he  had  told  her  frankly 
that  he  had  loved  another  and  been  refused,  and  she  had 
accented  him,  and  asked  no  question  about  her  rival.  On 
board  the  ship  in  the  harbor  she  had  been  so  occupied 
with  her  own  personal  friends  who  were  there  to  say 
good-by,  that,  though  introduced  to  Miss  Belknap,  she 
had  paid  no  attention  to  her,  or  noticed  her  in  any  way. 
When  her  first  child  was  born,  ten  months  after  her 
marriage,  she  had  wished  to  name  it  Sarah,  for  her 
mother,  but  her  husband  said  to  her  :  "I  would  like  to 
call  it  Beatrice  Belknap,  if  you  do  not  mind." 

She  did  mind,  for  she  knew  now  that  Beatrice  Bel- 
knap was  her  husband's  first  choice,  but  she  held  it  every 
wife's  duty  to  obey  her  husband  so  far  as  it  was  right, 
and  as  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  this  proposition  she 


182  BEE'S     FAMILY. 

consented  without  a  word,  and  the  baby  was  named  for 
Beatrice,  bui  familiarly  called  Trixey.  as  that  pet  name 
suited  her  better.  Of  the  Beatrice  over  the  sea  Theo- 
dore never  spoke,  and  his  wife  never  questioned  him,  and 
so  she  knew  nothing  of  her  until  she  woke  from  sleep 
and  found  her  there  in  all  her  fresh  beauty  and  bright 
plumage,  which  seemed  so  out  of  place  in  that  humble 
room.  Of  course  she  was  embarrassed  and  confused, 
but  she  would  not  apologize,  except  as  she  spoke  of  the 
life  of  privation  they  had  led  in  that  heathen  land. 

"And  yet  there  was  much  to  make  me  happy,"  she 
said.  "I  knew  we  were  doing  God's  work, — which 
somebody  must  do, — and  when  some  poor  creatures  blessed 
us  for  coming  to  tell  them  the  story  of  Jesus,  I  was  so 
glad  that  I  had  gone  to  them,  and  my  trials  seemed  as 
nothing.  And  then,  there  was  Theo,  always  the  same 
good,  true  husband  to  me."  She  said  this  a  little  de- 
fiantly, as  if  to  assure  Beatrice  that  the  heart,  which 
once  might  have  beaten  for  her,  was  now  wholly  loyal 
to  another. 

And  Bee  accepted  it  sweetly,  but  had  her  own  opinion 
on  the  subject  still. 

"  Yes,  the  Mr.  Morton  I  used  to  know  could  never  be 
anything  but  kind  to  one  he  loved  well  enough  to  make 
his  wife,"  she  said  ;  and  then,  by  way  of  turning  the  con- 
versation from  Theodore  to  something  else,  she  asked  : 
"  Were  you  sick  all  the  time  you  were  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  most  of  the  time.  My  children  were  born  so 
fast, — four  in  five  years.  I  lost  a  noble  boy  between 
Mamie  and  baby  Eddie  ;  that  almost  killed  me,  and  I've 
never  been  the  same  since.  There  is  consumption  in  our 
family  far  back,  and  I  fear  I  have  inherited  it.  My 
cough  is  terrible  at  times,  but  I  hope  much  from  Vermont 
air  and  Vermont  nursing.  Oh,  I  have  longed  so  for  the 
old  home  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  for  some  water 
from  the  well,  for  mother,  and  to  lie  on  her  bed  as  I 
used  to  when  I  was  a  child,  and  had  the  sick-headache." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  said  this,  and  she 
leaned  wearily  back  in  her  chair,  while  Bee  involuntarily 
laid  her  soft,  warm  hand  upon  the  thin,  wasted  one  where 
the  wedding-ring  sat  so  loosely.  Just  then  the  door 
opened  and  Theodore  Morton  came  in,  the  same  Beatrice 
had  heard  at  the  missionary  meeting,  the  same  with 


BEE'S     FAMILY.  183 

whom  she  had  strolled  through  the  Kentucky  woods  and 
on  the  shore  of  Quinsigamond  Pond.  He  knew  her  at 
once,  but  nothing  in  his  face  or  voice  betrayed  any  con- 
sciousness of  the  past,  if  he  felt  it.  He  met  her  naturally 
and  cordially,  said  he  was  very  glad  to  see  her,  that  it  was 
kind  in  her  to  find  them  out,  and  then  passed  on  to  his 
sick  wife,  on  whose  head  he  laid  his  hand  caressingly, 
asking  if  it  ached  as  hard  as  ever,  or  if  she  was  feeling  a 
little  better. 

"  You  look  better  certainly,"  he  said,  regarding  her 
curiously,  not  knowing  that  the  improvement  was  owing 
to  the  artistic  way  in  which  Beatrice  had  knotted  up  thtf 
heavy  hair,  which  showed  at  the  sides  and  added  appar- 
ent breadth  to  the  thin,  narrow  face. 

What  a  noble-looking  man  he  was,  and  how  well  he 
appeared,  as  if  he  had  associated  with  kings  and  queens 
instead  of  the  poor  heathen,  and  what  a  change  his 
presence  made  in  that  dingy  back  room,  which,  with 
him  in  it,  had  at  once  *an  atmosphere  of  home  and  do- 
mestic happiness.  He  had  been  there  but  a  few  moments 
at  the  most,  but  in  that  time  he  had  smoothed  his  wife's 
hair,  and  called  her  Mollie,  the  pet  name  she  liked,  and 
made  her  smile,  had  tossed  Bunchie  in  the  air  and  stuffed 
her  fat  hands  with  candy,  had  kissed  little  Trixey,  and 
given  her  a  new  picture-book,  and  taken  the  baby  from 
her  and  was  walking  with  it  up  and  down  the  room  to 
hush  its  wailing  cry.  And  between  times  he  talked  to 
Beatrice,  naturally  and  easily,  asking  for  the  people  he 
used  to  know  in  Rothsay,  and  if  she  was  living  there 
now  ;  then,  stopping  suddenly,  he  said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  taking  it  for  granted  yon 
were  Miss  Belknap  still.  Are  you  married  ?  You  used 
to  be  a  sad  flirt." 

He  said  the  last  playfully,  and  the  two  looked  at  each 
other  an  instant,  and  their  eyes  dropped  suddenly  as  if 
alarmed  at  what  they  saw. 

"  I  am  Bee  Belknap  still,  and  as  great  a  flirt  as 
ever,"  Bee  replied  ;  and  then  the  Rev.  Theo  did  a  most 
remarkable  thing  ;  he  turned  to  his  wife,  and  said  : 

"  ^Nlollie,  dear,  do  you  know  I  was  once  foolish 
enough  to  ask  this  gay  bird  to  go  with  me  to  the  Feegees, 
and  she  had  the  good  sense  to  refuse.  Wouldn't  she 


184  BEE  '£     FA  MIL  T. 


have  cut  a  fine  figure  out  there  with  all  her  finery  and 
fashion  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Mollie  said  faintly,  while  Bee  rejoined, 
laughingly:  "You  ought  to  be  very  thankful  that  I 
preferred  fashion  to  Feegees  ;  such  a  life  as  I  should 
have  led  you." 

"You  would  have  died,"  Mollie  rejoined,  and  the 
conversation  on  that  subject  ceased. 

Theo  had  set- things  right  for  them  all  by  his  plain 
and  playful  allusion  to  the  past,  which,  from  that  allu- 
sion, would  be  supposed  to  have  no  part  in  his  present 
life,  and  to  have  left  no  mark  upon  him.  He  seemed 
very  happy  with  his  children,  and  very  kind  to  his  wife, 
who  was  a  different  creature  with  his  strong,  mesmeric 
influence  near  her. 

"I  believe  she'd  be  passably  good-looking  if  she 
were  decently  dressed.  She  has  good  hair,  not  bad  fea- 
tures, and  rather  fine  eyes  ;  but  where  are  the  glasses, 
she  surely  wore  them  away?"  Beatrice  thought,  and  at 
last  she  ventured  to  say  :  "  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Morton,  but 
did  you  not  wear  glasses  on  shipboard  six  years  ago  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "  my  eyes  were  weak  from 
over-study,  trying  to  master  the  language,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  wear  glasses  for  a  time.  I  laid  them  off  after 
Trixey  was  born.  Theo  never  liked  me  in  them." 

As  the  short  March  afternoon  was  wearing  to  a  close 
Beatrice  soon  rose  to  go,  after  first  asking  how  long  the 
Mortons  intended  to  remain  in  the  city. 

"  We  have  written  to  mother  to  know  if  she  can  re- 
ceive us,"  Mrs.  Morton  said,  "and  shall  go  as  soon  as  we 
get  her  answer.  I  am  afraid  we  shall  crowd  and  worry 
her  too  much,  for  the  house  is  small,  and  she  and  father 
are  old  and  poor,  and  may  not  want  us  all." 

"Never  mind,  Mollie,"  Theo  said,  "don't  kill  the  bear 
till  you  see  it  ;"  then,  turning  to  Beatrice,  he  added,  not 
complaining,  but  laughingly,  "  Mollie  has  a  great  way  of 
borrowing  trouble,  while  I  wait  till  it  comes." 

"  It's  my  poor  health  ;  my  nerves ;  I  can't  help  it," 
the  invalid  said,  with  a  quiver  in  her  voice  and  about  her 
lips. 

"  Of  course  you  can't,  Mollie,"  and  again  the  broad, 
warm  hand  was  placed  upon  Mollie's  head  by  way  of  re- 
assurance. 


BEE'S     FAMILY.  185 

Theo  went  with  Bee  to  her  carriage,  and  handed  her 
in,  and  told  her  to  come  again,  and  said  he  would  call  on 
her,  and  was  not  one  whit  more  demonstrative  when  alone 
with  her  than  he  was  up  in  that  back  room  with  his 
nervous  wife  looking  on.  But  Bee  did  not  quite  be- 
lieve he  was  perfectly  happy.  How  could  he  be  with 
Mollie. 

And  yet  she  was  very  sorry  for  Mollie,  who,  she  was 
sure,  was  a  much  better  woman  than  herself,  and  the 
next  day,  which  was  very  fine,  she  drove  again  to  No. 
Eighth  street,  and  invited  the  s'ck  woman  to  ride. 

"The  coupe  is  close,  and  I  brought  an  extra  shawl  to 
keep  you  nice  and  warm,"  she  said,  as  she  threw  over 
Mrs.  Morton's  shoulders  her  second-best  India  shawl, 
which  covered  up  the  black  delaine,  trimmed  with  half- 
worn  silk,  which  Mollie  wore. 

It  was  her  best,  Bee  knew,  for  little  Trix  had  said, 
exultingly,  "Ma's  got  on  her  bestest  down  to  day." 

"  Yes,  my  best,  and  almost  my  all,"  Mrs.  Morton 
said,  "but  I  have  money  for  a  new  one  ;  some  English 
ladies  give  it  me,  and  told  me  to  get  a  black  silk.  I've 
never  had  one  in  my  life  :  would  you  mind  going  with 
me  somewhere  and  helping  me  pick  it  out:  you  are  a  so 
much  better  judge  of  silk  than  I  am?" 

Bee  flinched  a  little  inwardly  as  she  looked  at  the 
dowdy  woman,  in  her  queer,  old-fashioned  bonnet,  and 
thought  of  the  fashionable  ladies,  her  friends,  who  were 
sure  to  be  shopping  at  this  hour,  and  who  always  spied 
her  out  and  pounced  upon  her.  But  she  shut  her  teeth 
together  hard,  bade  the  coachman  drive  to  Arnold's, 
resolved  to  beard  the  elegant  man  at  the  silk  counter, 
who  was  always  so  obsequious  to  Miss  Belknap,  the 
heiress  and  belle.  Everybody  was  out  that  day,  and 
Bee  met  at  least  half  a  dozen  friends  before  she  reached 
the  silk  counter,  where  she  found  her  man,  bland,  atten- 
tive, and  eager  to  serve  her. 

"Black  silk,"  she  said,  and  he  showed  her  at  once 
samples  varying  in  price  from  eight  to  ten  dollars  a 
yard. 

"  Oh,  deai-,  no  !  something  cheaper,  much  cheaper," 
Mrs.  Morton  gasped;  and  then  the  clerk  knew  that  the 
faded,  countrified-looking  woman  whom  he  had  not  at 
all  considered  as  belonging  to  Miss  Belknap,  was  the 


186  BEE'S    FAMILY. 

real  customer,  and  his  face  changed  its  expression  at 
once  as  he  put  hack  his  high-priced  silks  with  an  injured 
air,  and  said  :  "  You  will  find  what  you  want  farther 
down.  We  have  nothing  cheap  here." 

"I  think  you  have,"  Beatrice  said  to  him.  "Show 
me  something  at  four  dollars  a  yard." 

"  Certainly,"  and  again  the  clerk  was  all  smiles  and 
attention,  and  began  to  exhibit  his  goods,  while  Mrs. 
Morton  whispered  nervously,  "  But,  Miss  Belknap,  you 
don't  understand.  I've  only  forty  dollars;  I  cannot 
afford  it." 

"  I  can,"  Beatrice  replied.  "  I  have  more  money  than 
I  can  spend.  Let  me  give  you  the  dress.  I'll  take  it  as  a 
great  favor,  and  you  can  use  the  forty  dollars  for  some- 
thing else." 

There  were  tears  in  Mrs.  Morton's  eyes,  and  her  face 
was  very  white,  as  she  said  : 

"No,  no;  that's  too  much  from  you,  a  stranger. 
Theo  would  not  like  it." 

"  I'll  make  it  right  with  Theo.  I'm  not  a  stranger  to 
him,"  Bee  answered,  and  so  the  silk  was  bought,  and  vel- 
vet to  trim  it  with,  and  then  they  moved  to  another  part 
of  the  store  for  something  for  the  children,  and  met  a 
whole  regiment  of  ladies,  Mrs.  Gen.  Stuckup  with  Mrs. 
Sniffe,  who  were  delighted  to  see  Bee,  but  looked 
askance  at  her  companion,  wondering  if  it  was  some  poor 
relation  of  whom  they  had  never  heard,  and  commiser- 
ating Bee,  who  must  feel  so  mortified. 

She  was  not  mortified  one  whit  now,  though  she  had 
been  at  the  start,  but  she  despised  herself  thoroughly 
for  it  and  was  very  attentive  to  her  companion,  and  when 
Mrs.  Sniffe,  who  was  frightfully  envious  of  her,  and  never 
failed  to  sting  her  if  she  could  do  it,  asked  her  in  an 
aside,  with  a  roll  of  her  eyes  ;  "Who  is  that  frump  of  a 
woman,  and  how  came  she  fastened  to  you  ?"  she  an- 
swered, readily,  "  It  is  Mrs.  Theodore  Morton,  wife  of 
a  returned  missionary,  whose  name  you  must  have  seen 
if  you  ever  read  the  papers.  He  is  very  highly  esteemed 
by  the  board  as  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman.  Some  con- 
nection of  Gov.  Morton,  of  Massachusetts,  I  believe." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  you  are  doing  missionary  work  in  your 
own  way,  I  see.  It's  quite  like  you,"  Mrs.  Sniffe  said,  as 


BEE'S     FAMILY.  187 

she  passed  on  to  the  laces  and  left  Bee  and  Mrs.  Morton 
to  themselves. 

"That  woman  made  fun  of  me  and  called  me  a 
frump,"  Mrs.  Morton  falteringly  said,  with  a  quivering 
lip,  but  fire  in  her  eye,  as  she  looked  after  the  retreat- 
ing bundle  of  velvet,  and  silk,  and  ostrich  feathers. 

"Never  mind.  You  don't  care  for  her.  They  say 
she  used  to  work  in  the  factory  at  Lowell,  and  married  a 
irfan  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  but  he  had  a  million, 
and  died,  and  left  it  to  her,  and  now  she  is  Mrs.  Sniffe, 
and  leads  a  certain  class  of  simpletons,"  Bee  replied,  and 
so  Mrs.  Morton  was  reconciled  to  Mrs.  Sniffe's  snub,  and 
more  than  reconciled  to  her  husband's  first  love  when 
she  saw  how  kind  and  generous  she  was,  spending  her 
money  so  freely,  and  doing  it  all  as  if  it  were  a  great 
favor  to  hersejf  rather  than  an  act  of  charity  to  the  poor 
woman,  who  returned  to  her  boarding-house  laden  with 
more  dry-goods  for  herself  and  children  than  she  had 
seen  during  the  entire  period  of  her  married  life. 

It  was  two  days  before  Beatrice  went  again  to  her 
family  on  Eighth  street,  and  then  she  found  Mrs.  Morton 
alone,  and  very  much  depressed,  on  account  of  a  letter 
that  morning  received  from  her  father. 

As  she  gave  Beatrice  the  letter  to  read,  I  will  give  it 
to  my  readers.  It  was  as  follows  : 

"My  BELOVED  DAUGHTER  : — Many  thanks  be  to  God 
for  having  brought  you  safely  to  America,  and  given  us 
to  believe  that  we  shall  see  your  face  again  and  that  of 
the  little  ones,  our  grandchildren.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
glad  we  are,  your  mother,  and  myself,  and  Aunt  Nancy, 
too,  though  I  think  she  dreads  the  litter  and  the  greas'e- 
spots  the  children  are  sure  to  make,  her  life  has  been  so 
quiet,  you  know.  For  myself,  I  long  to  see  the  bairns 
and  hear  their  young  voices.  It  will  make  me  young 
again,  though  the  years  are  bearing  me  down  now  so 
fast.  Sixty-eight  is  nigh  on  to  three  score  and  ten,  our 
allotted  time. 

"  And  now  about  your  coming  here  for  the  summer. 
Of  course  you  are  welcome  as  the"  blossoms  of  M;iy,  but 
1  should  be  keeping  back  something  it'  1  did  not  tell  you 
just  the  situation  of  things  in  the  old  parsonage.  Your 
mother  is  down  with  nervous  prostration,  and  has  been 


188  BEE'S     FAMILY. 

for  months,  and  as  she  is  very  weak  I  occupy  a  separate 
room  from  hers.  Your  Aunt  Nancy  has  another,  and 
that  only  leaves  your  own  old  room  for  you  and  Theo- 
dore and  the  three  children.  Of  course,  I  don't  count 
that  place  over  the  woodshed,  where  we  can  have  a  bed 
for  a  girl  or  a  boy.  You  cannot  have  three  children  in 
your  room  even  when  your  husband  is  away,  it  is  so 
small,  and  Nancy  would  as  soon  have  a  vvoodchuck  in 
with  her  as  a  child  ;  so  at  first  it  was  a  question  how  to 
dispose  of  you.  But  Providence  provided,  as  lie  always 
does.  Your  mother  and  I  made  it  a  subject  of  prayer, 
asking  in  our  blind  way  that  God  would  incline  Nancy 
either  to  change  rooms,  or  to  have  a  little  cot  set  up  in 
hers,  and  feeling  confident  He  would  hear  the  prayer  of 
faith.  He  did  hear  and  answer,  but  in  His  own  way, 
which  was  not  ours.  He  did  not  soften  your  Aunt 
Nancy,  but  he  sent  your  cousin  Julia  to  us  to  say  that 
she  would  gladly  take  one  of  the  little  girls  for  a  while. 
You  know  she  is  rich  and  has  no  children,  and  it  will  be 
a  nice  home  for  the  child,  and  Nancy  says,  'Let  her  have 
the  one  that  will  be  likely  to  fill  our  house  the  fullest 
and  make  the  most  to  do?  whatever  that  may  be. 

"And  now,  having  stated  the  case  as  it  is,  we  shall 
be  glad  to  see  you  any  day,  only  on  Nancy's  account  you 
may  as  well  let  us  know,  as  everything  will  have  to  be 
scoured  with  soap  and  sand.  I  hear  her  now  at  the 
kitchen  table,  which  somebody  has  spilt  a  drop  of  milk 
on. 

"Your  mother  joins  me  in  love,  and  prays  for  you. 
"  Affectionately  your  father, 

"  CYRUS  BKOWN." 

"What  a  nice  letter,  and  what  a  good  old  man  he 
must  be,"  Beatrice  said,  as  she  finished  reading. 

u  Yes,"  Mrs.  Morton  answered,  hesitatingly;  "it  is 
nice,  and  he  is  good,  and  mother,  too  ;  but  the  idea  of 
losing  one  of  the  children  is  dreadful  to  me.  There  is 
always  some  thorn  in  my  rose.  I  have  thought  so  much 
of  going  back  to  the  old  house  under  the  apple  trees,  and 
having  my  little  ones  with  me  ;  and  now  you  see  what 
he  says, — one  must  go  to  Cousin  Julia  Ilayden." 

In  Mrs.  Morton's  roses  there  would  always  be  thorns, 
fancied  or  real,  but  Bee  did  not  tell  her  so  ;  she  merely 


BEE'S     FAMILY.  189 

asked:  "Who  is  Mrs.  Hayden?  Is  she  fond  of  chil- 
dren ?  Will  she  be  kind  to  them  ?" 

"She  is  my  cousin  on  mother's  side,"  Mrs.  Morton, 
said.  "She  is  the  great  woman  of  Bronson,  and  the 
richest,  and  lives  in  the  grandest  house.  She  never  had 
any  children  of  her  own,  and  I  do  not  think  her  very 
fond  of  them.  She  would  be  kind  in  a  certain  way,  but 
very  exacting.  She  does  not  understand  them.  She 
used  to  teach  school,  and  was  very  strict,  indeed.  She 
could  not  make  allowances  for  the  difference  between 
herself  and  little  folks.  She  is  Aunt  Nancy's  owu 
niece." 

"  And  who  is  Aunt  Nancy  ?"  Bee  asked,  and  Mrs. 
Morton  replied,  "Mother's  old  maid  sister,  Nancy 
Phillips,  who  has  always  lived  with  us.  She  is  the  neat- 
est, most  particular  person  you  ever  saw;  and  because 
she  is  strong  and  willing,  and  mother  is  feeble,  she  has 
run  the  house  so  long  that  she  thinks  it  is  her  own,  and 
orders  father  as  if  he  were  a  dog.  But  she  has  many 
excellent  traits,  and  they  could  not  live  without  her.  She 
was  always  kind  to  me,  and  I'd  rather  trust  my  children 
with  her  than  with  Cousin  Julia  Hayden.  It  is  very 
hard,  and  makes  me  so  nervous." 

"  Yes,  I  can  fancy  it  all,"  Bee  said  ;  and  then,  recur- 
ring to  the  letter,  she  added  :  "You  are  to  give  up  the 
one  which  will  fill  the  house  the  fullest  and  make  the 
most  noise.  Now,  which  is  that?" 

Instantly  the  eyes  of  both  went  over  to  the  window, 
where  Trixey  was  combing  and  brushing  Bunchie's  hair, 
pulling  and  snarling  it  awfully,  and  talking  all  the  time 
as  fast  as  her  tongue  could  fly.  Yes,  there  was  no  mis- 
take. Little  Trix  would  fill  the  house  the  fullest  and 
make  the  greatest  to  do,  and  Mrs.  Hayden  would  never 
understand  her,  or  make  allowance  for  her  busy,  active 
ways  ;  and  Beatrice  wanted  her  for  herself,  and  said  at 
last  to  Mrs.  Morton  :  "  Will  you  let  me  have  Trixey,  for 
as  long  a  time  as  Mrs.  Hayden  would  keep  her?  I  know 
I  can  make  her  happy.  You  can  trust  her  with  me." 

Mrs.  Morton  was  sure  of  that.  During  the  few  days 
she  had  known  Miss  Belknap  she  had  received  from  her 
too  many  kindnesses  to  think  of  her  as  other  than  a 
friend,  and  one  to  be  trusted.  At  first,  she  had  looked  a 
little  suspiciously  upon  the  elegant  woman  who  had  been 


190  BE&S    FAMILY. 

Theo's  first  choice,  and  who  was  so  unlike  herself,  and 
she  had  more  than  once  thought,  "How  could  he  have 
chosen  me  after  knowing  her  ?"  She  did  not  say  "  love 
me,"  for  she  had  been  morally  sure  that  when  she  be- 
came Theodore  Morton's  wife  there  was  not  much  love 
on  his  side  at  least.  She  had  loved  him  for  years,  and 
been  picked  out  for  his  wife  since  she  was  a  little 
girl.  His  father  and  grandfather  had  been  clergymen, 
and  he  had  been  her  father's  pupil  when  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Brown  taught  a  small  school  for  boys,  by  way  of  ekeing 
out  his  salary.  Theo  had  said  then  he  meant  to  be  a  mission- 
ary, and  she  had  said  she  meant  to  be  one,  too,  and  wise 
ones  predicted  that  they  might  go  together.  But  the 
young  man  wandered  very  far  away  from  quiet  Bronson, 
and  its  staid,  old-fashioned  people,  and  went  to  Europe, 
and  fell  in  with  Bee  Belknap,  and  forgot  the  plain,  angu- 
lar Mary  Brown,  in  the  home  under  the  apple-trees,  who 
had  mended  his  clothes,  and  studied  Latin  and  Greek, 
and  talked  enthusiastically  of  a  missionary's  life  as  the 
happiest  and  best  a  man  could  choose.  He  had  never 
quite  believed  it  possible  that  a  bright,  gay  creature  like 
Bee,  with  hundreds  of  thousands  at  her  command,  would 
go  with  him  to  those  islands  in  the  far-off  Pacific,  but  he 
nevertheless  asked  her  the  question,  and  her  answer, 
given  tearfully  and  sadly,  and  rather  as  a  refusal  of  the 
Feejees  than  of  himself,  scattered  the  sweetest  dream  of 
his  life,  and  with  a  new-made  grave  in  his  heart  he  went 
back  to  Bronson  on  a  matter  of  business  he  had  with  Mr. 
Brown.  That  he  should  take  a  wife  with  him  seemed  a 
necessity,  and  as  Mary  was  ready,  and  more  than  willing, 
and  he  cared  little  now  who  it  was,  so  that  she  was  good 
and  true  and  pure,  he  married  her  with  no  love  in  his 
heart  for  her,  only  a  great  respect,  and  a  registered  vow 
that  she  should  receive  from  him  everything  but  love, 
and  if  it  were  possible,  should  never  feel  the  absence  of 
that.  And  she  had  not,  for  he  had  kept  his  vow  relig- 
iously, and  only  when  he  gave  the  name  to  Trixey  had 
she  experienced  a  little  prick  of  jealousy,  and  felt  curious 
with  regard  to  the  original  Beatrice.  If  he  did  not 
choose  to  tell  her  of  the  lady  she  would  not  ask,  and  so 
knew  nothing  till  she  met  her  in  New  York,  and  was 
dazzled  and  bewildered,  and  troubled,  and  a  very  little 
annoyed  at  first,  and  finally  won  by  the  sparkling,  bril- 


BEE'S     FAMILY.  191 

liant  woman  who  had  done  so  much  for  her,  and  who 
now  stood  offering  to  take  Trixey  off  her  hands  and  save 
her  from  Mrs.  Hayden.  She  knew  she  could  trust  her, 
and  that  Trix  would  be  safe  with  her,  but  she  shrank 
from  parting  with  the  helpful,  motherly  child,  who  did 
so  much  for  her  and  the  baby,  and  she  hesitated  in  her 
answer,  and  said  at  last  she  would  see  what  Theodore 
would  say. 

Theodore  approved  the  plan  heartily,  if  Trixey  must 
go  somewhere  to  be  out  of  the  sick  grandmother's  and 
Aunt  Nancy's  way.  But  now  there  arose  trouble  in 
an  unexpected  quarter.  Trixey  herself  demurred.  She 
loved  the  pretty  lady,  and  was  interested  to  hear  about 
the  dolls  and  dresses,  and  the  cats  and  kittens,  and  pret- 
ty little  tea-set  and  table,  and  wash-tub,  and  flat-iron, 
which  should  all  be  hers  in  that  new  home  in  Ohio.  The 
wash-tub,  and  fl.it-iron,  and  tea-set  made  her  waver  a 
little,  till  she  glanced  at  Bunchie,  when,  with  quivering 
lip,  she  said  : 

"  What  good  to  have  ever  so  many  sings,  and  Bunchie 
not  with  me  to  see  me  use  the  flat-iron  and  was-tub, 
and  sit  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  when  I  makes  the 
tea  ?" 

This  was  the  ground  she  took.  Bunchie  would  not 
be  there  to  share  her  happiness,  and  she  did  not  swerve 
from  it  until  her  father  appealed  to  her  sense  of  right, 
and  told  her  the  real  reason  why  she  should  go.  Grand- 
pa's house  was  very  small,  and  he  was  poor.  Grandma 
was  sick,  and  Aunt  Nancy  could  not  have  so  many  chil- 
dren round. 

"  But  I  could  help  her  lots.  I'd  rock  baby  brudder 
to  seep,  and  wipe  the  dishes  ever  so  many  times,  and  be 
so  good  and  still  as  Bunchie,"  pleaded  the  little  girl  ; 
but  she  was  persuaded  at  last  to  go  because  it  was  right, 
and  God  would  love  her  if  she  did,  and  take  care  of 
Bunchie  and  baby  brother,  and  in  the  summer  she  should 
come  and  see  them  in  the  old  home  ;  and  so  it  was  quite 
settled  that  Trixey  was  to  go  with  Beatrice,  who  felt 
more  and  more  the  wisdom  of  the  decision  when  that 
very  afternoon  she  met  Mrs.  Hayden  herself  in  Mrs. 
Morton's  room,  and  had  an  opportunity  of  judging  what 
manner  of  person  she  was,  and  what  Trixey  Js  chance  for 
happiness  would  have  been  with  her. 


192  BEE'S     FAMILY. 

She  was  a  tall,  large,  finely-formed  woman,  with  great 
black  eyes,  bushy  eyebrows,  and  a  growth  of  hair  about 
her  wide  mouth  which  gave  her  a  more  masculine  ap- 
pearance even  than  did  her  figure  and  size.  She  spoke 
loudly  and  decidedly,  as  one  used  to  her  own  way,  as 
well  as  to  dictate  the  way  of  others.  Her  dress  was 
very  rich  and  showy,  but  not  New-  Yorkey  a  bit,  Bee  de- 
cided, after  a  rapid  survey  of  the  lady,  who  scrutinized 
her  as  closely,  and  decided  that  she  was  New-Yorkey, 
and  wondered  who  her  dressmaker  was.  To  faded,  plain 
Mrs.  Morton  she  was  very  patronizing  and  frank,  and 
told  her  that  what  she  wanted  was  fresh  air,  and  cold 
baths,  and  oatmeal  to  bring  her  up  again,  while  her 
mother,  who  had  been  sick  so  long,  needed  effort  and 
energy.  She  could  get  up  if  she  only  thought  so. 
Nervous  prostration  was  not  a  disease  ;  it  was  a  fancy, 
which,  if  indulged  in,  would  end  in  one's  being  bed-rid- 
den. 

"  I've  made  it  a  rule  to  guard  against  nervousness  in 
every  form,  and  what  is  the  result?  I  have  never  been 
sick  a  day  in  my  life,  and  have  no  idea  how  it  feels  to 
Lave  the  headache,  or  the  toothache,  or  the  backache,  or, 
in  fact,  any  ache,  and  that  is  the  way  it  should  be." 

She  looked  the  woman  never  to  have  an  ache  or 
pain,  or  if  she  had,  to  strangle  it  at  once,  and  Beatrice 
shrank  from  her  involuntarily  as  from  an  Amazon,  while 
poor,  sick  Mrs.  Morton  colored  scarlet,  and  roused  in 
defense  of  her  own  ailments,  which  Mrs.  Hayden  seemed 
to  think  she  could  help. 

"Just  because  you've  never  been  sick,  Julia,"  she 
said,  "you  cannot  understand  it  in  others,  but  you  go 
out  a  missionary  once,  and  have  four  children  in  six 
years,  and  be  as  poor  as  poor  can  be,  and  you  might 
know  something  of  aches  and  pains,  and  have  some 
weaknesses  which  cold  baths  and  oatmeal  could  not 
cure." 

"  I  would  not  go  out  as  a  missionary,  and  I  would  not 
have  the  four  children  in  six  years;  so  you  see  it  is  not  a 
supposable  case,"  Mrs.  Hayden  retorted,  and  then  Bee 
hated  her,  and  was  doubly  glad  that  little  Trix  was  not 
to  fall  into  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Hayden  herself  was  not  sorry.  She  had  made 
the  offer  from  a  sense  of  duty,  for  she  was  high  up  in 


BEE'S     FAMILY.  193 

everything  of  that  kind,  and  performed  her  duties 
rigidly,  from  dieting  her  husband,  a  weak,  feeble  man, 
on  oatmeal  and  pearl  barley,  to  telling  her  neighbors 
their  faults,  and  how  they  could  amend  them.  She  did 
not  like  children,  and  it  had  cost  her  something  to  make 
up  her  mind  to  have  one  in  her  house;  but  she  had  made 
the  offer,  and  meant  to  stand  by  it  if  it  should  be 
accepted.  Finding  it  convenient  just  then  to  visit  New 
York,  she  had  called  upon  her  poor  relations  to  learn  the 
result  of  her  offer,  and  when  told  what  it  was  she 
expressed  no  regret,  but  asked  many  question  about  Miss 
Belknap,  who  seemed  to  her  to  be  crazy  to  think  of  tak- 
ing Trixey.  Suddenly  there  flashed  upon  her  the  recol- 
lection of  a  rumor  heard  years  ago,  and,  in  her  usual 
brusque  way,  she  asked  : 

"IsBDethe  girl  to  whom  Theo  was  once  engaged, 
and  who  jilted  him  ?" 

"  They  never  were  engaged,  but  he  liked  her,"  Mrs. 
Morton  answered  faintly,  while  a  throb  of  neuralgic 
pain  shot  through  her  head,  and  a  bright  red  spot  burned 
on  her  cheeks. 

She  was  far  more  a  lady,  in  her  brown  alpaca  dress- 
ing-gown, than  was  this  blunt  women  in  her  velvet  and 
silk  ;  and  so  Beatrice  thought  when  she  came  in  immedi- 
ately after  her  identity  with  Theo's  first  love  had  been 
proved.  Mrs.  Hayden  never  acknowledged  any  person 
her  superior,  but  she  saw  at  a  glance  that  Miss  Bdlknap 
was  somebody,  and  an  important  somebody,  too,  and 
thought  to  stamp  herself  as  somebody,  by  talking  of  her 
house,  and  grounds,  and  servants,  and  the  watering- 
places  she  frequented,  and  the  people  she  had  met.  She 
was  now  stopping  on  Madison  avenue  with  Mrs.  Sniffe, 
who  was  Mr.  Hayden's  cousin  ;  probably  Miss  Belknap 
knew  Mrs.  Sniffe,  or  at  least  had  heard  of  her.  She 
attended  Dr.  Adams'  church,  and  was  quite  a  leader 
there. 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?"  she  asked  squarely  ;  and  Bee 
replied  : 

"  Yes,  I  have  some  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Sniffe.  I 
meet  her  occasionally  at  parties." 

x  Something  in  the  tone  made  Mrs.  Hayden  look  suspi- 
ciously at  Beatrice,  as  she  wondered  whether  it  was  Mrs. 
Suiffe  who  was  only  to  be  met  at  general  parties,  or  Miss 

9 


1 94  BEE  '£     FAMIL  Y, 

Belknap  herself  ;  while  Mrs.  Morton  felt  emboldened  to 
pay  : 

"  Mrs.  Sniffe, — that's  the  woman  we  met  at  Arnold's 
who  called  me  a  frump.  Maybe  she  forgets  that  she 
once  worked  in  the  factory  at  Lowell." 

She  had  fired  her  heavy  gun,  and  felt  better  for  it,  in- 
asmuch as  she  had  hit  the  enemy,  who  reddened,  as  she 
replied  : 

"  I  believe  she  was  there  for  a  short  time,  but  honest 
labor  does  not  hurt  a  person  in  this  country." 

Then  she  talked  of  Mrs.  Sniife's  grandeur  and  style, 
until  Bee  was  tired  of  it  and  arose  to  go,  promising  to 
call  next  day  and  decide  when  to  take  Trixey.  Mrs. 
Ilayden  followed  her  into  the  hall,  and,  begging  her 
pardon,  asked  who  made  the  dress  she  was  wearing. 

"Mademoiselle  Verwest  made  it  and  sent  it  to  me. 

Her  address  is  No. -,  Rue  St.  Honore,  Paris,"  Bee 

replied. 

And,  somewhat  discomfited,  Mrs.  Hayden  bowed  her 
thanks,  and  returned  to  her  cousin,  whom  she  badgered 
about  her  weak  nerves,  and  want  of  energy,  until  the 
poor  woman  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  weeping, 
and  cried  herself  sick. 

Beatrice  found  her  in  bed  next  day,  and  as  the  little 
room  seemed  so  close  and  full  of  children,  she  carried 
Trixey  away  with  her  to  her  friend's  house,  and  for  a 
day  or  two  devoted  herself  wholly  to  the  child,  who  was 
kept  in  such  a  state  of  surprise  and  bewilderment  that 
she  did  not  once  cry  for  the  mother  down  on  Eighth 
street.  Beatrice  bought  her  a  doll  nearly  as  large  as 
herself,  and  bought  her  a  kitchen,  with  wash-tub  and 
stove,  and  a  China  tea-set  and  table,  and  beautiful 
dresses  for  herself,  and  then  whisked  her  off  to  the 
train  before  she  had  time  to  recover  from  the  excite- 
ment of  so  many  wonderful  things.  Mr.  Morton  was  at 
the  depot,  but  Trixey  did  not  see  him.  It  was  thought 
better  that  she  should  not,  so  he  looked  his  farewell 
from  a  distance,  but  said  good-by  to  Beatrice,  and  held 
her  hand  closely  pressed  in  his  own,  as  lie  said: 

"  God  bless  you,  Bee,  for  all  you  have  done  for  us. 
We  never  can  forget  it.  G.>od-by.  You  will,  of  course, 
write  to  Mollie  as  soon  as  you  get  home." 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  Beatrice  said,  hating  herself   be- 


BEE "3     FAMILY.  195 

cause  the  name  Mollie  as  spoken  by  Theo  grated  on  her 
nerves,  and  seemed  in  some  way  a  wrong  to  herself. 

Bee  knew  such  feelings  were  foolish,  and  as  often  as 
they  rose  within  her,  she  took  Trix  in  her  lap  and  kissed 
her,  and  talked  to  her  of  the  mother  they  were  leaving 
so  far  behind,  and  whose  eyes  looked  at  her  through  the 
child's,  save  that  Trixey's  were  larger,  and  more  weird 
in  their  expression. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they  reached  Roth- 
say,  and  were  driven  to  Elm  Park.  Bee  had  telegraphed 
to  Aunt  Rachel  that  she  was  coming  with  a  little  girl,  so 
everything  was  in  readiness  for  them,  and  Trixey  was 
made  much  of,  and  talked  to  and  looked  at,  until  she 
began  to  nod  in  her  chair,  and  was  taken  up  to  bed. 

That  evening  Everard  came  up  to  Elm  Park  with 
Rosamond.  They  had  just  heard  of  Bee's  return,  and 
hastened  at  once  to  see  her.  Everard  was  looking  about 
the  same  as  when  Beatrice  saw  him  last,  except  that  he 
was  perhaps  a  little  thinner.  He  was  working  pretty 
hard,  he  said,  and  earning  some  money,  but  his  dress  did 
not  indicate  anvthing  like  reckless  expenditure  upon 
himself,  and  Beatrice  felt  sure  that  Josephine  was  draw- 
ing heavily  upon  him. 

He  was  now  quite  at  home  at  the  Forrest  House,  and 
was  there  nearly  every  evening,  and  Beatrice  frit  some- 
thing like  a  throb  of  fear  when  she  saw  his  eyes  resting 
upon  Rossie,  as  if  loth  to  lt-ave  the  fresh  young  face, 
which  had  grown  so  bright  and  attractive  during  the  last 
few  months.  She  was  growing  very  pretty,  and  her 
figure  looked  graceful  and  womanly  when  at  last  she 
arose  to  go,  and  stood  while  Everard  folded  her  shawl 
around  her,  drawing  it  close  up  about  her  neck  so  as  to 
shield  her  throat,  which  was  a  little  sore.  Something  in 
that  shawl  adjustment  and  the  length  of  time  it  took 
sent  another  thrill  through  Bee's  nerves,  and  the  moment 
they  were  gone  she  went  to  her  room,  where  Trixey  lay 
sleeping,  and  bending  over  the  child,  wondered  if  in  all 
lives  things  got  as  t  rribly  mixed  as  they  were  in  hers 
and  Everard's. 


196  IN    THE    SUMMER. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

IN     THE     SUMMER. 

RIXEY  did  not  thrive  well  in  her  new  home, 
though  everything  which  human  ingenuity 
could  devise  was  done  to  make  her  happy 
and  contented.  But  in  spite  of  everything 
Trixey  could  not  quite  overcome  her  home- 
sickness. Many  times  a  day  she  disappeared  from  sight 
and  was  gone  a  long  time,  and  when  she  came  back  there 
was  a  mysterious  redness  about  her  eyes,  which  she  said, 
by  way  of  explanation,  were  "  kind  of  sore,  she  dessed. 
Maybe  she  had  got  some  dust  in  'em." 

This  went  on  for  weeks,  until  at  last,  in  a  fit  of  re- 
morse lest  she  had  been  guilty  of  a  lie,  the  conscientious 
child  burst  out: 

"  'Tain't  dust,  'tain't  sore  that  makes  'ein  red;  it's 
wantin'  to  see  papa,  and  mamma,  and  Bunchie,  and  baby 
brudder.  Was  it  a  lie,  and  is  I  a  naughty  diii  to  make 
breve  it  was  dust?" 

Then  Bee  felt  that  it  would  be  wrong  to  keep  her 
any  longer,  and  wrote  to  Mrs.  Morton  to  that  effect. 

Mrs.  Morton  and  Bunchie  were  still  in  Bronson,  but 
Theo  was  supplying  a  vacant  pulpit  in  Boston,  and  onl}' 
saw  his  wife  once  in  two  or  three  weeks.  There  was 
room  in  the  parsonage  now  for  homesick  Trixey,  for  the 
sickly  baby  had  died  suddenly  with  cholera  infantnm, 
and  the  same  letter  which  carried  the  news  to  Beatrice 
asked  that  Trixey  might  be  sent  to  Vermont. 

"  Sent  her  by  express,"  Mrs.  Morton  wrote,  "  or  will 
you  bring  her  yourself  ?  We  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  you, 
though  we  cannot  offer  you  a  bed  here,  we  are  so  full, 
but  there  is  a  good  country  hotel  near  us,  and  Cousin 
Julia  Hayden,  whom  you  met  in  New  York,  wishes  me 
to  say  that  she  will  be  very  glad  to  entertain  you  at  her 
own  house.  I  hope  you  will  come,  for  though  our  ac- 
quaintance is  so  recent,  you  seern  to  me  like  a  friend  of 
years,  and  I  feel  that  the  sight  of  you  may  do  me  good, 
now  that  my  heart  is  so  sore  with  the  loss  of  my  baby." 
"  J'll  go,"  ]3ee  said,  as  she  finished  reading  the  letter, 


IN    THE    SUMMER.  197 

deciding  all  the  more  readily  on  account  of  a  little  in- 
cident which  had  occurred  the  night  before,  and  which 
filled  her  with  alarm  for  both  Everard  and  Rosamond. 

They  had  walked  together  to  Elm  Park,  and  sat  with 
her  for  an  hour  or  more  on  the  piazza,  where  the  full 
moon  was  shining  brightly.  This  time  there  had  been 
no  shawl  to  adjust,  for  the  early  June  night  was  warm, 
and  balmy,  but  there  was  a  slight  dampness  in  the  air, 
and  Everard's  solicitude  lest  Rosamond  should  take  cold 
or  contract  a  sore  throat  was  noticeable  in  the  extreme. 
Two  or  three  times  he  pulled  the  fleecy  cloud  of  Berlin 
wool  about  her  neck,  and  asked  if  she  were  quite  com- 
fortable, and  once  he  let  his  hand  rest  on  her  shoulder 
for  some  minutes,  while  he  sat  looking  at  her  with  an 
expression  on  his  face  which  Josephine  might  have  re- 
sented had  she  seen  it.  And  Bee,  with  her  strong  sense 
of  right  and  wrong,  resented  it  for  her,  or  rather  for 
Rosamond,  whom  she  would  not  see  sacrificed  without  a 
protest.  So  when  they  arose  to  go  home,  she  led  Ever- 
ard away  from  Rossie,  and  when  sure  she  could  not  be 
heard,  said  to  him,  earnestly  : 

"  Pardon  me,  Everard,  but  you  are  altogether  too 
solicitous  about  Rosamond's  health.  Let  her  take  care 
of  herself.  She  is  capable  of  doing  it,  and,  remem- 
ber, there  are  bounds  you  must  not  pass,  or  suffer  her  to 
approach.  It  would  be  very  cruel  to  her." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  answered,  coloring  deeply  as  he 
spoke.  "You  need  not  fear  for  Rossie.  She  is  my 
sister,  nothing  more  ;  and  even  if  I  were  disposed  to 
make  her  something  else,  do  you  suppose  I  can  ever  for- 
get the  past  ?" 

He  spoke  bitterly,  and  showed  plainly  how  gladly  he 
would  free  himself,  if  possible,  from  the  bond  which 
held  him,  and  which  was  growing  daily  more  and  more 
hateful  to  him. 

As  far  as  she  could  see  them  in  the  moonlight  Bea- 
trice watched  Everard  and  Rossie  as  they  walked  slowly 
down  the  avenue  which  led  to  the  street,  and  when  they 
were  out  of  sight  she  said  to  herself  :  "He  ought  to  ac- 
knowledge his  marriage,  and  he  must,  even  if  he  does 
not  take  his  wife,  which  might  be  the  better  thing  to  do. 
There  must  be  good  in  her, — something  to  build  upon,  if 
under  the  right  influence,  with  somebody  to  encourage 


198  IN    THE    SUMMER. 

and  stimulate  her  to  do  her  best.  I  wish  I  knew  her, — 
wish  I  dared  face  her  in  her  own  home,  and  judge  what 
kind  of  person  she  is." 

This  was  Bee's  thought  the  night  before  she  read 
Mrs.  Morton's  letter  inviting  her  to  Bronson,  and  when 
she  read  it  the  thought  resolved  itself  into  a  fixed  pur- 
pose, the  first  step  of  which  was  to  take  Trixey  to  her 
mother.  Poor  iiitle  Trixey,  who  turned  so  white,  but  did 
not  at  first  shed  a  tear,  when  told  of  her  baby  brother's 
dea'-h.  Ha!f  an  hour  later,  however,  Beatrice  found  her 
in  the  garden,  with  her  face  in  the  grass,  sobbing  as  if 
her  heart  wouid  break  for  the  dead  brother,  of  whom 
she  said  to  Bee,  "  I  wouldn't  feel  so  bad  to  have  him 
with  Jesus,  only  I  shaked  him  once  hard,  when  he  was  so 
cross  and  heavy,  and  I  was  so  tired,  and  he  wouldn't  go 
to  sleep.  I'se  so  sorry.  Will  God  let  me  go  to  Heaven 
some  day  and  see  him,  and  teli  him  I'se  sorry  ?" 

As  well  as  she  could,  Beatrice  comforted  and  re- 
assured the  weeping  child,  whose  conscientiousness  and 
sweet  faith  and  trust  in  God  were  leading  her  into  ways 
she  had  only  known  in  theory,  but  which  were  be- 
ginning  to  be  very  pleasant  to  her  feet,  as  she  learned 
each  day  some  new  lesson  from  the  trusting  child. 

It  was  near  the  latter  part  of  June,  the  season  of 
roses,  and  pinks,  and  water  lilies  in  New  England,  when 
she  at  last  took  Trixey  to  the  old  brown  house  under  the 
shadow  of  the  apple  trees,  where  the  mountain  air  was 
filled  with  perfume  from  the  flowers  blossoming  on  the 
borders  by  the  door,  and  where  Bunchie  played  in  the 
soft  summer  sunshine  under  the  snow-ball  tree  by  the 
well.  It  was  such  a  plain,  but  pleasant  old  house,  with 
the  rafters  overhead  showing  in  the  kitchen,  and  the 
great  box-like  beams  in  the  corners  of  the  room, — for 
the  old  house  claimed  to  have  seen  a  hundred  years, 
and  to  have  heard  the  guns  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. But  it  was  very  cheerful  and  home- 
like, and  neat  as  soap  and  sand  and  Aunt  Nancy's 
hands  could  make  it.  Aunt  Nancy  was  the  first  to  wel- 
come Miss  Belknap,  looking  a  little  askance  at  her  style 
and  manners,  and  wondering  how  they  could  ever  enter- 
tain so  fine  a  lady  even  for  a  few  hours.  Mrs.  Morton 
was  sick  with  a  headache,  and  Mrs.  Brown  was  still 
down  with  nervous  prostration,  having  stoutly  resisted 


IN    THE    SUMMER.  199 


all  Mrs.  Julia  Hayden's  advice  about  making  an  effort, 
and  hints  which  sometimes  amounted  to  assertions  that 
she  could  get  up  if  she  liked,  and  would  diet  on  oatmeal 
and  barley.  In  her  last  letter  to  Mrs.  Morton,  Beatrice 
had  declined  Mrs.  Hoyden's  offer,  and  said  she  should 
feel  more  independent  at  the  hotel  for  the  short  time  she 
should  remain  in  Bronson,  but  within  half  an  hour  after 
her  arrival  at  the  parsonage,  Mrs.  Hayden  was  there 
also,  in  her  handsome  carriage,  drawn  by  her  shining  black 
horses,  and  driven  by  a  shining  black  coachman,  in 
gloves  and  brass  buttons,  and  she  insisted  so  hard  upon 
Beatrice  stopping  with  her,  that  the  latter  finally  ac- 
cepted the  invitation,  but  said  she  would  remain  for  the 
day  where  she  was  and  see  if  she  could  not  be  of  some 
comfort  and  holp  to  Mrs.  Morton,  who  seemed  better 
from  the  moment  she  came  and  laid  her  soft  hands  on 
her  head. 

"  Nothing  can  help  her  or  her  mother,  either,  unless 
they  make  an  effort,"  Mrs.  Hayden  said,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head,  and  a  flash  of  her  black  eyes.  "  Spleen y  and 
notional  both  of  them  as  they  can  be;  call  it  nervous, 
if  you  like;  what's  nervousness  but  fidgets  ?  I  was 
never  nervous;  but  if  I'd  give  up  every  time  the  weather 
changes,  or  I  felt  a  little  weak,  I  might  have  prostration, 
too.  There's  Harry,  ray  husband,  would  have  died  long 
ago  if  I  had  not  kept  him  up  just  by  my  own  energy  and 
will.  I  make  him  sleep  with  the  w'indows  open,  and  he 
takes  a  cold  bath  every  morning  at  six  o'clock,  and  eats 
oatmeal  for  his  breakfast,  with  a  cup  of  hot  water 
instead  of  coffee  or  tea." 

"And  does  he  thrive  on  that  diet?  Is  he  well  and 
strong  ?"  Bee  asked,  and  Mrs.  Hayden  replied  : 

"Well  and  strong?  No:  he  could  not  be  that  in 
the  nature  of  things,  he  comes  from  a  sickly  stock; 
but  he  keeps  about,  which  is  better  than  lying  in  bed  and 
moping  all  the  time." 

How  strong  and  full  of  life  Mrs.  Hayden  was,  and  so 
unsympathetic  that  Beatrice  did  not  wonder  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton shivered  and  shrank  away  even  from  the  touch  of 
her  large,  powerful  hands. 

"  I  am  sometimes  wicked  enough  to  wish  she  might 
be  sick  herself,  or  at  least  nervous,  so  as  to  know  how  it 
feels,"  Mrs.  Morton  said,  after  her  cousin  had  gone. 


200  IN    THE    SUMMER. 

"She  thinks  I  can  do  as  she  does,  and  the  thing  is  impos- 
sible. My  health  is  destroyed,  and  I  sometimes  fear  I 
shall  never  be  well  again." 

She  had  failed  since  Beatrice  saw  her,  and  her  eyes 
looked  so  large  and  glassy  as  she  lay  upon  the  pillow, 
and  her  cough  was  so  constant  and  irritating,  that  to 
talk  of  effort  and  oatmeal  to  her  seemed  preposterous 
and  cruel.  What  she  needed  was  rest,  and  nursing,  and 
care,  and  change  of  thought  and  occupation,  and  these 
she  could  not  have  in  their  fullest  extent  at  the  parson- 
age, with  poverty  and  a  sick  mother,  and  bustling,  irrita- 
ble Aunt  Nancy  to  act  as  counter  influences.  She  must 
be  taken  entirely  away,  and  amused,  and  nursed,  and  pet- 
ted, and  Beatrice  began  to  see  the  first  step  pf  that  vague 
plan  formed  in  Rothsay,  and  which  she  meant  to  carry 
out. 

For  a  day  or  two  she  staid  in  Bronson,  sleeping  and 
eating  in  Mrs.  Hayden's  grand  house,  and  feeling  all  her 
sympathies  enlisted  for  shriveled-up  Mr.  Hayden,  who 
in  the  morning  came  shivering  to  the  table  from  his  cold 
bath,  and  swallowed  his  oatmeal  and  hot  water  dutifully, 
but  with  an  expression  on  his  thin,  sallow  face  which 
showed  how  his  stomach  rebelled  against  it  and  craved 
the  juicy  steak  and  fragrant  coffee  with  which  his  bloom- 
ing wife  regaled  herself,  because  she  was  strong  and 
could  bear  it.  Once  Bee  ventured  to  suggest  that  steak 
an-d  beef-tea  might  be  a  more  nutrit.ous  diet  even  for  a 
dyspeptic  than  oatmeal  and  barley,  varied  with  dry 
toast  and  baked  apples  ;  but  Mrs.  Hayden  knew.  She 
had  read  up  on  stomachs,  and  nerves,  and  digestion,  and 
knew  every  symptom  of  dyspepsia,  and  its  cause,  and 
what  it  needed,  and  how  a  person  ought  to  feel  ;  and  her 
husband  submitted  quietly,  and  said,  "  Julie  was  right," 
and  grew  thinner,  and  paler,  and  weaker  every  day  with 
cold  baths  and  starvation  ;  but  he  kept  the  respect  of 
his  wife  because  he  tried  to  be  well,  and  that  was  a  great 
thing  to  do,  for  in  his  estimation  she  was  a  wonderful 
woman,  and  represented  the  wisdom  of  the  world. 

On  the  third  day  Beatrice  left  Bronson,  to  look, 
she  said,  for  some  quiet,  pleasant  nook,  where  she 
could  spend  a  few  weeks  during  the  hot  weather.  She 
found  such  a  place  in  Holburton,  whither  she  came  one 
warm  July  afternoon,  when  the  town  was  at  its  best.  It 


IN    THE    SUMMER.  201 

was  not  an  unheard-of  thing  for  city  people  to  pass  a 
few  weeks  in  Holburtou  during  the  hot  weather,  and  no 
one  was  surprised  when  Miss  Belknap  registered  her 
name  on  the  hotel  books,  and  said  she  -was  looking  for 
some  quiet  and  reasonable  boarding-house  for  an  invalid 
with  two  children.  Several  were  recommended  to  her, 
and  with  the  list  in  her  hand  she  started  out  to  recon- 
noiter. 

Mrs.  Roxie  Fleming  was  the  fourth  name  on  her  pa- 
per, but  she  went  there  first,  and  was  pleased  with  the 
place  at  once,  because  it  looked  so  cool  and  inviting  un- 
der the  wealth  of  hop  vines  which  covered  one  side  of  it. 

The  day  was  warm,  and  Mrs.  Fleming,  in  her  clean, 
purple  calico  gown,  sat  sewing  on  the  door-steps,  while 
a  woman  with  a  deep  pasteboard  bonnet  on  her  head, 
concealing  her  face  from  view,  was  sweeping  the  grass 
in  the  back  yard.  But  she  turned  as  she  heard  the  gate 
open,  and  seeing  Beatrice,  came  forward  until  she  saw  her 
mother  ;  then  she  withdrew,  leaving  Mrs.  Fleming  to  con- 
fer with  the  stranger. 

She  had  rooms  to  let,  she  said  ;  did  the  lady  wish 
them  for  herself?  and  she  looked  curiously  at  Beatrice, 
who  was  so  different  from  the  boarders  who  usually  came 
to  her,  for  her  rooms  were  low  and  scantily  furnished, 
and  not  at  all  like  the  apartments  city  people  desired. 

Miss  Belknap  wanted  board  for  herself  and  a  friend 
with  two  children  ;  two  sleeping-rooms  and  a,  parlor 
would  do  nicely  for  them  ail,  and  she  was  willing  to  pay 
whatever  it  was  worth. 

Mrs.  Fleming  readily  guessed  that  money  was  no 
consideration  with/the  ladv,  and  as  it  was  of  much  im- 
portance to  her,  she  decided  to  ask  the  highest  possible 
price  at  first,  and  then  fall  if  necessary.  After  a  mo- 
ment, during  which  she  seemed  to  be  thinking,  she  said  : 

"I  don't  know  but  lean  accommodate  you  with  three 
rooms,  though  I  do  not  often  rent  an  extra  parlor,  and  if 
I  do  so  now  my  daughter  Josephine  must  give  up  the 
room  she  occupies  when  she  is  here." 

"  Then  she  is  not  at  home  ?"  Beatrice  said,  feeling 
that  she  must  know  that  fact  before  she  eng.ig^d  bo.ird, 
wh'T'3  the  only  attraction  was  Josephin  \  who,  she  found, 
h.id  only  gone  for  a  wB-?k  or  so  to  O  ik  Blaffj,  with  a 
party  of  friends,  add  was  expected  daily. 

9* 


202  IF    THE    SUMMER. 

The  price  named  for  the  three  rooms,  though  high 
for  Ilolburton,  did  not  seem  unreasonable  to  Beatrice, 
and  the  bargain  was  closed  with  the  understanding  that 
Beatrice  was  to  take  immediate  possession. 

"It  will  be  a  change  for  Mrs.  Morton  ;  a  relief  to 
Aunt  Nancy  ;  a  possible  benefit  to  Everard,  and  an 
amusement  to  me,''  Beatrice  thought,  as  she  hurried  back 
to  Bronson,  where  she  found  the  Rev.  Theodore  him- 
self, handsomer,  more  elegant  in  appearance,  because 
better  dressed,  than  when  she  saw  him  last,  and  very 
glad  to  see  her,  as  an  old  friend  who  was  kind  to  his  wife 
and  children. 

To  the  Ilolburton  plan  he  listened  approvingly.  It 
would  do  Mollie  good,  he  said,  for  two  sick  people  in 
one  house  were  quite  too  many  for  the  comfort  of  either. 
But  Mollie  demurred  ;  she  could  not  sleep  in  new  places 
unless  everything  were  right,  and  she  presumed  there 
were  swarms  of  crickets  and  tree-toads,  and  possibly 
bull-frogs,  there  among  the  mountains,  to  make  the 
night  hideous. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  portray  the  scorn  and  dis- 
gust which  blazed  in  the  black  eyes  of  Mrs.  Julia  Hay- 
den,  who  was  present,  when  Mollie  uttered  her  protest 
against  Ilolburton. 

"Crickets,  and  tree-toads,  and  bull-frogs,  indeed! 
She'd  like  to  see  the  bull-frog  which  could  keep  her 
awake,  even  if  it  sat  on  her  pillow  and  croaked  in  her 
ear  ;  it  was  all  nonsense,  such  fidgets.  Just  use  your 
will  and  a  little  common  sense,  and  you  will  sleep 
through  everything." 

This  was  Mrs.  Ilayden's  theory,  which  made  Mollie 
cry  and  Beatrice  angry,  and  Theodore  laugh.  He 
had  to  stand  between  them  all,  and  keep  them  from, 
quarreling,  and  he  did  it  admirably,  and  smoothed 
everything  so  nicely,  and  made  the  trip  to  Ilolburton 
seem  so  desirable,  that  Mollie  began  to  want  to  go, 
especially  as  he  assured  her  he  could  well  afford  it, 
as  the  church  in  Boston  paid  him  liberally,  and  had 
just  given  him  a  hundred  dollars  to  do  with  as  he  liked. 
Beatrice  had  intended  to  meet  the  expenses  herself,  but 
could  not  press  the  matter  without  hurting  more  than 
she  did  good.  It  was  just  possible  that  Mrs.  llayden 
migiit  follow  them  with  her  husband,  if  good  rooms  and 


MBS.     FLEMINGS    BOARDERS.  203 

board  could  be  found  for  her,  for  she  had  taken  a  great 
liking  to  Miss  Belknap,  who  stood  even  higher  in  her 
estimation  than  Mrs.  Sniffe,  and  whose  acquaintance  she 
readily  saw  would  do  her  more  real  good  in  a  social 
point  of  view.  So  it  was  finally  arranged  that  Mollie 
and  the  children  should  go  to  Holburton  for  the  summer, 
and  word  to  that  effect  was  forwarded  to  Mrs.  Fleming, 
with  instructions  to  have  the  rooms  in  readiness  by  the 
middle  of  July. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
MRS.  FLEMING'S  BOARDERS. 

T  was  a  lovely  summer  day  when  the  party 
arrived  at  Holburton  and  were  driven  to  the 
brown  house  on  the  common,  where  they 
found  everything  in  readiness  for  them,  and 
Mrs.  Fleming  and  Agnes  waiting  to  receive 
them.  Josephine  was  not  visible,  for  she  had  resolutely 
set  her  face  against  them. 

She  did  not  want  a  lot  of  women  in  the  house  any 
way,  she  said  ;  they  were  a  nuisance,  and  made  as  much 
again  trouble  as  men.  They  were  never  satisfied  with 
their  board,  were  always  in  the  kitchen  washing  out 
their  pocket-handkercli.efs,  heating  flat-irons  and  making 
a  muss  generally.  For  her  part,  she  liked  to  be  free  to 
do  as  she  liked  without  the  fear  of  being  torn  into  shoe- 
strings by  some  meddling,  jealous  old  woman.  If  they 
must  have  boarders,  take  gentlemen  ;  there  were  plenty 
who  would  be  glad  to  come.  She  would  rather  have 
clerks,  or  even  mechanics,  than  the  fine  lady  they  de« 
scribe^l  and  a  sick  woman  with  her  brats,  and* blue  as  a 
whetstone  undoubtedly,  inasmuch  as  she  was  a  mission- 
ary's wife.  She'd  be  wanting  family  prayers  and  a 
blessing  at  the  table,  and  be  horrified  to  know  there  were 
two  packs  of  cards  in  the  house,  and  that  they  were 
used,  too  ! 

This  was  Josephine's  opinion,  but  her  mother  had  her 


204  MRS.     FLEMING'S    BOARDERS. 

way  in  spite  of  it,  and  went  on  with  her  preparations, 
while  Josephine  sulked,  and  declared  her  intention  of 
avoiding  them  entirely,  and  never,  in  any  way,  coming 
in  contact  with  them.  Still,  there  was  a  consolation  in 
the  fact  that  the  small  room  she  was  compelled  to  take 
was  down  stairs,  and  so  far  removed  from  the  board- 
ers that  they  would  not  know  how  late  she  was  out 
on  the  street  with  admirers,  of  which  she  had  several, 
or  how  long  they  staid  with  her  after  she  came  in. 
Josephine  liked  the  kind  of  life  she  was  leading  at 
present.  No  lady  in  town  dressed  better  than  she  did, 
and  though  she  knew  that  people  commented  upon  it, 
and  wondered  where  she  got  the  money,  and  hinted  at 
things  which  no  real  modest  woman  would  like  to  have 
laid  to  her  charge,  she  did  not  care,  so  long  as  she  knew 
it  was  all  right,  and  that  some  day  everything  would 
be  explained,  and  she  stand  acquitted  before  the  world, 
which  criticised  her  unmercifully,  but  because  there 
was  no  tangible  proof  against  her,  noticed  her  just  the 
same  as  if  there  were  no  breath  of  suspicion  attaching 
to  her  name.  She  would  be  noticed,  and  if  she  saw 
signs  of  rebellion  in  any  quarter  she  fought  it  down  inch 
by  inch  and  rode  triumphantly  over  the  opinions  of  those 
who  tried  to  slight  her.  No  young  lady  in  town  could 
boast  as  many  admirers  as  she,  and  she  managed  to  keep 
them  at  her  side  even  after  they  found  there  was  no 
hope.  Old  Captain  Sparks,  the  millionaire,  had  long 
known  this,  and  yet,  as  the  moth  flutters  around  the  can- 
dle, so  he  hovered  around  the  young  beauty,  accepting 
the  position  of  father  instead  of  brother,  and  from  time 
to  time  presenting  his  daughter  with  cosily  presents, 
which  she  accepted  so  sweetly  and  prettily  because  she 
knew  it  would  hurt  him  if  she  refused.  To  the  other 
lovers  she  was  sister  and  friend,  and  she  gave  them  a 
great  deal  of  good  advice,  and  made  them  believe  they 
were  much  safer  with  her  than  they  would  be  else- 
where. 

Only  Dr.  Matthewson  knew  her  thoroughly,  and  him 
she  never  tried  to  deceive.  And  still,  the  doctor  was 
more  absolutely  under  her  influence  than  any  of  the 
train  who  visited  her  constantly.  But  just  now  he  was 
away  on  business,  he  called  it,  though  Josephine  knew 
that  the  business  \vas  gambling,  thai  being  his  only 


MRS.     FLEMING'S    BOARDERS.  205 

moans  of  livelihood.  A  fortunate  play,  or  series  of 
plays,  bad  put  a  large  sum  of  money  into  bis  hands,  and 
be  "had  gone  on  a  Hailing  vessel  to  the  West  Indies, 
thinking  to  visit  England  before  returning  to  America. 
Josephine  was  a  little  ennuyeed  without  the  doctor,  whom 
she  preferred  to  any  man  living.  And  yet,  could  she 
have  had  him  by  giving  up  Everard  she  would  not  have 
done  it,  for  though  she  had  no  love  for  her  husband,  she 
had  a  fancy  for  the  money  and  position  he  could  give 
her  by  and  by,  and  for  which  she  was  patiently  waiting. 
Had  her  life  been  less  pleasant  and  exciting,  or  had 
Everard  sent  her  less  money,  she  might  have  rebelled 
against  it,  and  taken  steps  which  would  have  resulted  in 
her  learning  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  Forrest  House. 
But  as  it  was  she  was  content  to  wait  and  enjoy  herself 
in  her  own  way,  which  was  Vp  dress  and  flirt,  and  come 
and  go  at  her  pleasure,  and  be  waited  on  at  home  as  if 
she  were  some  princess  of  the  blood. 

And  this  was  about  the  state  of  affairs  when  Beatrice 
reached  the  Fleming  house  with  Mrs.  Morton,  who,  con- 
trary to  her  expectations,  was  pleased  at  once. 

"I  do  believe  1  shall  rest  here  and  get  well  again, 
everything  is  so  comfortable,"  she  said,  as  she  lay  down 
upon  the  chintz-covered  lounge  for  a  few  moments 
before  taking  the  cup  of  tea  which  was  brought  to 
her  by  Agnes,  who,  in  her  clean  calico  dress,  with  her 
dark  hair  combed  smoothly  back,  and  a  sad  but  peaceful 
expression  on  her  white,  tired  face,  enlisted  Beatrice's 
sympathies  at  once,  for  she  saw  from  her  manner  that  she 
was  a  mere  household  drudge,  and  resolved  to  stand  her 
friend  whatever  might  come. 

Agnes  was  very  fond  of  children,  and  when  sho  had 
arranged  the  tray  for  Mrs.  Morton,  she  turned  to  the 
little  ones  and  tried  to  coax  them  to  her  side.  Bunchie 
came  at  once,  but  Trixey  held  aloof,  and,  with  her  hands 
behind  her,  watched  the  woman  curiously,  and  it  would 
seem  without  a  very  complimentary  verdict  in  her  favor. 
Trixey  was  fond  of  bright,  gay  colors  and  elegant  ap- 
parel." Beatrice's  style  suited  her  better  than  this  faded, 
spiritless  woman,  whom  she,  nevertheless,  regarded  very 
intently,  and  at  last  startled  with  the  question  : 

"  How  did  you  look  when  you  were  new?" 

*'Oh,  Trixey  !"  Mrs.  Morton  aud  Beatrice  both  ex- 


206  MRS.     FLEMINGS    BOARDERS. 

claimed,  in  a  breath,  fearing  lest  Agnes'  feelings  should 
be  hurt,  but  she  only  laughed  a  hearty,  merry  laugh, 
which  changed  her  face  completely,  and  made  it  almost 
young  and  pretty,  as  she  said  : 

"  I  don't  know  how  1  looked,  it  was  so  very  long  ago  ; 
but  I  love  little  girls  like  you,  and  my  old  black  hands 
have  made  them  so  many  pies  and  cakes,  and  paper  dol- 
lies, and  they  shall  make  some  for  you,  if  you'll  let  me 
kiss  you." 

Trixey  was  won  by  this,  and  when  Agnes  went  back 
to  the  kitchen  she  was  followed  by  both  the  children, 
who  were  intent  upon  the  little  cakes  she  had  made  that 
morning  in  expectation  of  their  coming. 

Josephine  had  watched  the  arrival  of  the  ladies 
through  the  half-closed  shutters,  deciding  that  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton was  a  dowdy  country  woman,  and  that  Miss  Bel- 
knap  was  very  elegant  even  in  her  plain  traveling  dress, 
and  that,  perhaps,  she  was  somebody  whom  it  would  be 
policy  to  cultivate.  But  she  would  not  present  herself 
that  afternoon  ;  she  was  tired,  and  wished  to  keep  herself 
fresh  for  evening,  when  she  expected  a  call  from  a  young 
man  from  Albany,  whose  mother  had  taken  rooms  at  the 
hotel  for  the  summer,  and  whom  she  had  met  at  a  picnic 
the  day  before. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  though  breakfast  was 
served  later  than  usual,  Josephine  was  later  still,  and  the 
meal  was  nearly  half  over  when  she  entered  the  room, 
attired  in  a  blue  cambric  gown,  with  gold  pendants  in 
her  ears,  and  a  bit  of  honeysuckle  at  her  throat.  There 
was  a  very  sweet,  apologetic  expression  on  her  face  as 
she  went  up  to  her  mother  and  kissed  her  good  morn- 
ing, saying,  coaxingly  : 

"  Late  again,  as  usual,  mamma,  but  you  must  excuse 
me.  I  was  so  sleepy  ;"  then,  with  a  graceful  recognition 
of  the  strangers,  she  took  her  seat  at  the  table  by  the 
side  of  Trixey,  whom  she  patted  on  the  head,  saying  : 
"And  how  is  the  little  girl,  this  morning?" 

Mrs.  Fleming  was  accustomed  to  all  manner  of  moods 
and  freaks  in  her  daughter,  but  the  kissing  was  some- 
thing new,  and  surprised  her  a  little,  especially  as  there 
were  no  gentlemen  present  to  witness  the  pretty,  child- 
ish scene.  She  passed  it  off,  however,  naturally  enough, 
and  introducing  her  daughter  to  the  ladies  went  on  serv- 


MBS.    FLEMING'S    BOARDERS.  207 

ins:  the  breakfast.  Agnes  waited  upon  the  table,  and  so 
there  was  no  kiss  for  her,  only  a  gracious  nod  and  a 
"  good  morning,  sister,"  as  if  this  was  their  first  meet- 
ing, when,  in  fact,  Agnes  had  been  in  and  out  of  Jose- 
phine's room  three  or  four  times,  carrying  hot  water,  and 
towels,  and  soap.  But  Agnes  was  accustomed  to  such 
things  and  made  no  sign,  except  as  a  slight  flush  passed 
across  her  pale  face,  which  was  unobserved  by  Beatrice, 
who  was  giving  all  her  attention  to  the  young  beauty, 
sipping  her  coffee  so  leisurely,  and  saying  pretty  things 
to  Trixey. 

How  beautiful  she  was,  with  those  great  dreamy  blue 
eyes,  those  delicately  chiseled  features,  and  that  dazzling 
complexion,  which  Bee  thought  at  first  must  be  artificial, 
it  was  so  pure,  and  white,  and  smooth.  But  she  was 
mistaken,  for  Josephine's  complexion  had  never  known 
powder  or  paste,  or  wash  of  any  kind.  It  was  very  bril- 
liant and  fresh,  and  she  looked  so  young,  and  innocent, 
and  child-like  that  Beatrice  found  it  hard  to  believe 
there  was  aught  of  guile  or  deceit  in  her.  Everard  must 
have  become  morbidly  sensitive  to  any  faults  she  might 
have,  and  Bee's  thoughts  were  at  once  busy  with  what 
she  meant  to  do  for  this  estranged  couple.  There  must 
be  much  of  good  in  her.  Surely  that  face  and  those 
eyes,  which  looked  so  confidingly  at  you,  could  not  cover 
a  bad  heart.  Weak,  and  vain,  and  faulty  she  might  be, 
but  not  bad  ;  not  treacherous  and  unwomanly,  as  Everard 
believed,  and  Beatrice  was  so  glad  she  had  come  there 
to  see  and  judge  for  herself.  Every  action  was  perfectly 
lady-like,  every  movement  graceful,  while  the  voice  was 
soft  and  low,  and  well-bred  in  its  tone  ;  and  during  the 
few  moments  they  talked  together  after  breakfast, 
Beatrice  felt  herself  fascinated  as  she  had  never  been 
before  by  any  human  being.  As  she  was  tired,  and  had 
a  slight  headache,  she  did  not  go  to  church  that  morn- 
ing, but  saw  Josephine  leave  the  house,  and  watched  her 
out  of  sight  with  feelings  of  wonder  and  perplexity. 
Could  this  be  the  woman  whom  Everard  regarded  with 
so  much  disgust  ?  the  Joe  Fleming  whom  she  had 
thought  so  detestable  ?  Nor  was  her  wonder  at  all  di- 
minished when,  that  afternoon,  she  found  Josephine  in 
the  garden,  seated  under  a  tree  with  Bunchie  in  her  lap 
and  Trixey  at  her  side,  listening  intently  while  she  told 


208  MRS.     FLEMING'S    BOARDERS. 

them  the  story  of  Moses  in  the  bulrushes.  They  had 
heard  it  before,  but  it  gained  new  power  and  interest 
when  told  in  Josephine's  dramatic  way,  and  they  hung 
on  every  word,  and  when  it  was  done  begged  her  for  an- 
other. Surely,  here  was  more  of  the  angel  than  the 
fiend,  and  Beatrice,  too,  sat  down,  charmed  in  spite  of 
herself  with  the  girl  she  had  expected  to  despise. 

"  She  must  be  good,  and  Everard  is  surely  mistaken," 
she  thought,  and  her  admiration  was  at  its  height  when 
Josephine  finished  her  stories  and  began  to  talk  to  her. 
Airs.  Fleming  had  received  an  impression  that  Miss  Bel- 
knap  was  from  New  York,  and  Josephine  began  to  ques- 
tion her  of  that  city,  asking  if  she  had  always  lived 
there. 

"  I  was  born  there,"  Beatrice  replied,  "  but  I  was  ed- 
ucated in  Paris,  and  my  home  is  really  in  Rothsay,  a  lit- 
tle town  in  southern  Ohio." 

At  the  mention  of  Rothsay  Josephine  started,  and 
there  was  an  increase  of  color  in  her  face,  but  otherwise 
she  was  very  calm,  and  her  voice  was  perfectly  natural 
as  she  repeated  the  word  Rothsay,  evidently  trying  to 
recall  something  connected  with  that  place.  At  last  she 
succeeded,  and  said,  "  Rothsay — Rothsay,  in  Ohio.  Why, 
that  is  where  Mr.  Forrest  lives.  Mr.  J.  Everard  Forrest, 
Jr.  He  boarded  with  mamma  two  or  three  years  ago. 
He  was  in  college  at  Amherst.  Probably  you  know 
him,"  and  the  blue  eyes  looked  very  innocently  at 
Beatrice,  who,  warned  by  the  perfect  acting  to  be  cau- 
tious and  guarded,  replied,  "  Oh,  yes,  I  know  Everard 
Forrest.  His  mother  was  a  distant  relative  of  mine. 
She  is  dead.  Did  you  know  ?" 

"I  think  I  heard  so.  Everard  was  very  fond  of  his 
mother,"  Josephine  said  ;  then,  after  a  pause  she  added, 
"  Judge  Forrest  is  very  wealthy,  and  very  aristocratic, 
isn't  he  ?" 

"  He  was  always  called  so,  and  the  Forrest  property 
is  said  to  be  immense,"  Beatrice  replied,  quieting  her 
conscience  with  the  fact  that,  so  far  as  the  judge  was 
concerned,  she  had  put  him  in  the  past  tense,  and  spoken 
of  what  he  was  once  rather  th;in  of  what  he  was  at 
present,  but  Josephine  paid  no  attention  to  tenses,  and 
had  no  suspicion  whatever  of  the  truth. 

She  was  really  a  good  deal  startled  and  shaken,  men- 


MBS.    FUSJONGTS    BOARDERS 


tally,  notwithstanding  the  calmness  of  her  demeanor. 
Here  was  a  person  from  R»th*ay  who  knew  Everard 
Forrest,  and  who  might  be  of  great  service  to  her  in 
the  future,  and  it  behooved  her  to  be  on  her  best  be- 
havior. 

"Is  Everard  married  yet?"   she  asked  after  a  mo- 

**  Married  !"  Beatrice  repeated,  and  she  felt  the  color 
rising  in  her  face.  "Why,  he  ha*  not  his  profession  yet, 
but  is  studying  very  hard  in  his  father's  office." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  remember,  be  intended  to  be  a  lawyer.  I 
liked  him  very  mncii,  he  was  so  pleasant  and  gentle- 
manly," Josephine  said,  and  there  was  a  drooping  of  the 
heavy  Lishe*  over  her  blue  eyes,  as  if  with  regret  for  the 
past,  when  she  knew  and  liked  Everard  Forrest. 

*"  Bat  is  there  no  one  to  whom  he  is  particularly  at- 
tentive T  she  asked,  «  ft*  used  to  be  very  fond  of  the 
girls,  and  there  must  be  some  one  in  Rothsay  suitable 
for  him,  or  is  his  father  so  proud  that  he  would  object  to 
everybody?9" 

Beatrice  knew  perfectly  well  what  Josephine  meant, 
and  answered  that  she  had  heard  the  judge  was  very 
particular,  and  would  resent  a  marriage  which  be  thought 
beneath  his  son,  "bat  if  the  woman  was  good,  and  true, 
and  pure,  and  did  her  best,  I  think  it  would  all  be  well 
in  time,"  she  added,  as  an  encouragement  to  this  girl 
in  whom  she  was  trying  to  believe  ;  and  Josephine  con- 
tinned: 

"He  used  to  speak  of  alittle  girl, Rosamond, I  think, 
was  the  name.  She  must  be  well  grown  by  this  time. 
Is  she  there  now  !" 

"You  mean  Ros^HafCings,  his  adopted  sister.  Tea, 
she  is  there  still,  and  a  very  nice,  womanly  little  thing. 
She  is  sixteen,  I  believe,  though  she  seems  to  me 
,"  Restriee  said,  and  the  impression  left  on  Jose- 
mind of  Rossie  was  of  a  child,  in  whom  Ever- 
could not  be  greatly  interested  except  in  a  brotherly 
way. 

^  '    ••    '     •/     •".  •.'•.-.         :••;-•;-      ->•    -'   ~     :   •,-"-  :    :  •     "  :/!>:    '"  '.  '' 

then,  lest  she  should  excite  suspicion  in  Beatrice,  and 
was  meditating  a  retreat,  when  the  sound  of  rapid  wheels 
reached  them,  and  a  moment  after  a  tall,  slender  young 
not  over  twenty,  came  down  the  walk  ioonshing 


210  M£S.     FLEMINGS    BOARDERS. 

bis  little  cane  and  showing  plainly  the  half-fledged  boy, 
who  was  beginning  to  feel  all  the  independence  and 
superiority  of  a  man.  Bowing  very  low  to  Beatrice,  to 
whom  he  was  introduced  as  Mr.  Gerard  from  Albany,  he 
told  Josephine  he  had  come  to  ask  her  to  drive  alter  his 
fast  horse.  li  You  were  at  church  all  the  morning,  and 
deserve  a  little  recreation,"  he  said,  as  he  saw  signs  of 
refusal  in  Josey,  who,  sure  that  Miss  Belknap  would  not 
accept  a  like  invitation  felt  that  she, too,  must  refuse;  so 
she  said  very  sweetly  and  a  little  reprovingly: 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Gerard,  but  I  do  not  often  ride  on 
Sunday.  Some  other  day  I  shall  be  happy  to  go  with 
you,  for  I  dole  on  fast  horses,  but  now  you  must  excuse 


me." 


Young  Gerard  was  surprised,  for  he  had  not  expected 
to  find  consc  entvnis  scrup.es  in  the  girl  who.  the  previous 
night,  had  played  euchre  with  him  until  half-past  eleven, 
and  then  stood  another  half  hour  at  the  gate,  laughing 
and  flirting  with  him,  though  she  had  met  him  but  once 
before, 

Pie  was  not  accustomed  to  be  thwarted,  and  he 
showed  that  he  was  annoyed,  and  answered  loftily  : 

"Certainly,  do  as  you  think  best.  If  you  won't  ride 
with  me,  I  must  find  somebody  who  will.  I  wish  you 
good-afternoon,  ladies." 

Touching  his  hat  very  politely  he  walked  awav  ;  but 
Josephine  could  not  let  him  go  in  this  mood.  He  was 
her  latest  conquest,  and  she  arose  and  followed  him,  and 
walked  with  him  to  the  gate,  and  said  to  him  apologet- 
ically : 

"  I  want  to  go  awfully,  but  it  will  never  do  with  a 
missionary's  family  in  the  house." 

"  Bother  take  the  missionaries,"  he  said.  "I  wanted 
to  show  you  how  fast  Dido  can  trot." 

"Yes,  I  know  ;  but  there  are  other  days  than  Sunday, 
and  there  are  lots  of  girls  aching  to  go  witli  you  to-day," 
Josephine  said,  as  she  fastened  a  little  more  securely  the 
bouquet  in  his  button-hole,  and  let  her  hands  rest  longer 
on  his  coat-sleeve  than  was  necessary. 

"But  I  shan't  take  'em.  I  shall  wait  for  you,"  he 
answered,  quite  soothed  and  mollified. 

Then  he  bade  her  good-by,  and  drove  off,  while 
Josephine  returned  to  Beatrice  and  said,  laughingly  : 


MBS.     FLEMING'S    BOARDERS.  211 

"  Wh.it  bores  boys  of  a  certain  age  are,  and  how  they 
always  fasten  upon  a  girl  older  than  themselves  !  This 
Gerard  cannot  be  over  twenty.  He  reminds  me  a  little 
in  his  dress  of  Everard  Forrest  when  he  first  came  here, 
BO  fastidious  and  elegant,  as  if  he  had  just  stepped  from 
a  bandbox." 

"  He  is  very  different  from  that  now,"  Beatrice  re- 
plied, rousing  up  at  once  in  Everard's  defense.  "Of 
course  he  can  never  look  like  anything  but  a  gentleman, 
but  he  wears  his  coats  and  boots  and  hats  until  they  are 
positively  shabby.  It  would  almost  seem  as  if  he  were 
hoarding  up  money  for  some  particular  purpose,  he  is  so 
cu.eful  about  expense.  He  neither  smokes,  nor  chews, 
uor  drinks,  and  it  is  said  of  him  that  he  has  not  a.  single 
bad  habit ;  his  wife,  should  he  ever  have  one,  ought  to 
be  very  proud  of  him. ' 

Beatrice  was  very  eloquent  and  earnest  in  her  praises 
of  Everard,  and  watched  closely  the  effect  on  Josephine. 
There  certainly  was  a  different  expression  on  her  face  as 
she  listened  to  this  high  encomium  on  her  husband,  whose 
economies  she  well  knew  were  practiced  for  her,  and 
there  was  something  like  a  throb  of  gratitude  or  affection 
in  her  heart  when  she  heard  that  the  money  she  had 
supposed  was  given  him  by  his  father  was  earned  or 
saved  by  himself,  that  she  might  be  daintily  clothed. 

"I  am  delighted  with  this  good  account  of  him,  and 
so  will  mamma  be,"  she  said  ;  u  he  must  have  changed 
so  much,  for  he  was  very  extravagant  and  reckless  when 
we  knew  him,  but  I  liked  him  exceedingly." 

Again  there  was  the  sound  of  wheels  stopping  before 
the  gate,  and  excusing  herself,  Josephine  hurried  away 
to  meet  the  second  gallant  who  had  come  to  take  her  to 
ride.  Of  course  she  could  not  go,  and  so  the  young  man 
staid  with  her,  and  Walter  Gerard  drove  back  that  way, 
and  seeing  her  in  the  parlor  tied  his  horse  to  the  fence  and 
came  sauntering  in  with  the  air  of  one  sure  of  a  welcome. 

Josephine  did  not  appear  at  the  tea-table,  but  Bea- 
trice saw  Agnes  taking  a  tray  into  the  parlor,  and  knew 
the  trio  were  served  in  there,  and  felt  greatly  shocked 
and  disgusted  when  she  heard  the  clock  strike  twelve  be- 
fore the  sound  of  suppressed  voices  and  laughter  ceased 
in  the  parlor,  and  the  two  buggies  were  driven  rapidly 
away. 


212  JOSEPHINE'S    CONFIDENCE. 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
JOSEPHINE'S  CONFIDENCE. 


HE  next  day  Josephine  wrote  Evorard  the 
first  real  letter  she  had  sent  him  for  many 
weeks.  Heretofore  she  had  merely  acknowl- 
edged his  drafts  made  payable  to  her  mother, 
but  now  she  filled  an  entire  sheet,  and  called 
him  her  dear  husband,  and  told  him  of  Miss  Belknap's 
presence  in  the  house,  and  what  she  had  said  of  his 
habits  and  strict  economy. 

"  I  know  it  is  all  for  me,"  she  wrote,  "  and  I  felt  like 
crying  when  she  was  talking  about  you.  I  am  so  glad 
she  told  me,  for  it  has  made  me  resolve  to  be  worthy  of 
you  and  the  position  I  am  one  day  to  fill  as  your  wife. 
When  will  that  be,  Everard  ?  Must  we  wait  forever  ? 
Sometimes  I  get  desperate,  and  am  tempted  to  start  at 
once  for  Rothsay,  and,  facing  your  father,  tell  him  the 
truth,  and  brave  the  storm  which  I  suppose  would 
follow.  But  then  I  know  you  would  be  angry  at  such  a 
proceeding,  and  so  I  give  it  up,  and  go  on  waiting 
patiently,  for  I  do  wish  to  please  you,  and  am  glad  this 
Miss  Belknap  is  here,  as  I  am  sure  of  her  friendship 
when  the  time  of  trial  comes.  She  is  very  sweet  arid 
lovely,  and  I  wonder  you  did  not  prefer  her  to  your  un- 
worthy but  loving  Josey." 

Beatrice  also  wrote  to  Everard  that  day,  and  told 
him  where  she  was,  and  why,  and  said  of  Josephine, 
"  there  must  be  good  in  her,  or  she  could  not  seem  so 
sweet,  and  amiable,  and  affectionate.  A  little  vain  she 
may  be,  and  fond  of  attention,  and  why  not?  She  can- 
not look  in  the  glass  and  not  know  how  beautiful  she  is. 
And  her  voice  is  so  soft,  and  low,  and  musical,  and  her 
manners  so  lady-like.  You  see  I  am  more  than  half  in 
love  with  her,  and  I  am  quite  disposed  to  advise  a  re- 
cognition on  your  part  of  her  claim  upon  you.  Of  course 
I  shall  not  betray  you.  That  is  not  my  business  here.  I 
came  to  see  what  this  girl  is,  whose  life  is  joined  with 
yours.  I  find  her  quite  up  to  the  average  of  women, 


JOSEPHINE'S     CONFIDENCE.  213 

and  think  it  your  safer  course  to  acknowledge  her,  and 
not  leave  her  subject  to  the  temptations  which  must 
necessarily  beset  a  pretty  woman  like  her,  in  the  shape  of 
admiration  and  attention  from  every  marriageable  man 
in  town.  It  is  your  safer  way,  Everard,  for  remember 
there  is  a  bar  between  you  and  any  other  face  which 
may  look  to  you  inexpressibly  fair  and  sweet,  and  all 
the  sweeter  and  fairer  because  possession  is  impossible." 

These  letters  reached  Everard  the  same  evening,  and 
he  found  them  in  his  office  on  his  return  from  the  For- 
rest House,  where  he  had  sat  with  Rossie  an  hour  on  the 
piazza,  with  the  moonlight  falling  on  her  face  and 
softening  the  brilliancy  of  her  great  black  eyes.  How 
beautiful  those  eyes  were  to  him  now,  and  how  modestly 
and  confidingly  they  looked  up  occasionally  in  his  face, 
and  drooped  beneath  the  long  lashes  which  rested  on 
the  fair  cheeks.  She  was  so  sweet  and  loving,  this  pure, 
fresh  young  girl  ;  and  her  face  and  eyes  haunted  Ever- 
ard all  the  way  down  the  avenue  and  the  long  street  to 
his  office,  where  he  found  his  letters, — one  from  Beatrice, 
one  from  Josephine,  and  this  last  he  saw  first,  recoiling 
from  it  as  from  a  serpent's  touch,  and  remembering  with 
a  bitter  pain  the  face  seen  in  the  moonlight,  and  the 
pressure  of  the  hand  he  had  held  in  his  at  parting.  Then 
he  took  Bee's  letter,  and  turned  it  over,  and  saw  it  was 
postmarked  at  Holburton,  and  with  a  start  of  fear  and 
apprehension  tore  it  open  and  read  it  eagerly. 

"But  I  shall  never  do  it,"  he  said,  as  he  read  Bee's 
advice  with  regard  to  recognizing  Josephine.  "The 
goodness  is  not  there  ;  and  so  Bee  will  discover  if  she 
stops  there  long  enough." 

Then,  as  he  finished  her  letter,  he  felt  as  if  all  the 
blood  in  his  body  were  rushing  to  his  head,  for  he 
guessed  what  she  meant  by  "  that  other  face,  so  inex- 
pressibly fair  and  sweet."  It  was  Rossie's,  and  he  ground 
his  teeth  together  as  he  thought  of  the  bar  which  made 
it  sinful  for  him  to  look  too  often  upon  that  face,  fast 
budding  into  rare  beauty,  lest  he  should  find  it  too  sweet 
and/'tfzr  for  his  own  peace  of  mind.  And  then  he  told 
himself  that  Rosamond  was  only  his  sister  ;  his  ward,  in 
whom  he  must  necessarily  have  an  unusual  interest. 
Beatrice  was  too  fastidious,  and  did  not  trust  enough  to 


214  JOSEPHINE'S    CONFIDENCE. 

his  good  sense.  He  was  not  in  love  with  Rosamond, 
nor  in  danger  of  becoming  so. 

Tims  tbe  young  man  reasoned,  wbile  be  tore  Josey's 
letter  into  shreds,  which  he  tossed  into  the  waste-basket. 
He  did  not  believe  in  her  or  intend  to  answer  it,  for 
whenever  he  thought  of  her  now  it  was  as  he  saw  her 
last,  at  midnight  in  the  car,  sleeping  on  Dr.  Matthewson's 
arm.  He  wrote  to  Beatrice,  however,  within  a  few 
days,  expressing  his  surprise  at  what  she  had  done, — and 
telling  her  that  any  interference  between  Josephine  and 
himself  was  useless,  and  that  if  she  staid  long  in  llolbur- 
ton  she  would  probably  change  her  mind  with  regard  to 
the  young  lady. 

And  in  this  he  was  right,  for  before  his  letter  reached 
Holburton,  Beatrice  and  Mrs.  Morton  both  had  learned 
that  the  voice,  so  soft  and  flute-like  and  well-bred  when 
it  addressed  themselves,  had  another  ring  when  alone  in 
the  kitchen  with  Agnes,  who  drudged  from  morning 
till  night,  that  the  unusually  large  household  might  be 
kept  up.  There  were  more  boarders  now  in  the  house, 
for  Mrs.  Julia  Hayden  and  husband  had  come  to  Hoi- 
burton,  hoping  a  change  would  benefit  Mr.  Hayden,  who 
liked  the  quiet,  pleasant  town,  and  the  pure  air  from  the 
hills,  which  was  not  quite  so  bracing  as  that  which  blew 
down  from  tne  mountains  around  Bronson.  The  Hay- 
dens  occupied  the  parlor  below,  greatly  to  the  annoyance 
of  Miss  Josey,  who  was  thus  compelled  to  receive  her 
numerous  calls  either  in  the  dining-room  or  on  the  back 
piazza,  or  on  the  horse-block  near  the  gate. 

It  was  not  unusual  for  Josey  to  receive  three  admirers 
at  a  time,  and  she  managed  so  admirably  that  she  kept 
them  all  amiable  and  civil,  though  each  hated  the  other 
cordially,  and  wondered  why  he  would  persist  in  coming 
where  he  was  not  wanted.  Night  after  night  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton and  Mr.  Hayden  were  kept  awake  till  after  midnight 
by  the  low  hum  of  voices  and  occasional  bursts  of  sup- 
pressed laughter  which  came  from  the  vicinity  of  the 
horse-block,  and  when  Mrs.  Morton  complained  of  it  in 
the  presence  of  Josephine,  that  young  lady  was  very 
sorry,  and  presumed  it  was  some  of  the  hired  girls  in 
town,  who  had  a  great  way  of  hanging  over  gates  with 
their  lovers,  and  sitting  upon  horse-blocks  into  all  hours 
of  the  night. 


JOSEPHINE'S    CONFIDENCE.  215 

But  Mrs.  Julia  was  not  deceived.  Her  great  black 
eyes  read  the  girl  aright,  and  when  she  saw  a  female 
figure  steal  cautiously  up  the  walk  into  the  house,  and 
heard  the  footsteps  of  two  or  three  individuals  going  down 
the  road,  she  guessed  who  the  "  hired  girls"  were,  and 
Josephine  suspected  that  she  did,  and  removed  her  tryst- 
incj-place  from  the  horse-block  to  the  rear  of  the  garden, 
wluM-e  she  was  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  "  old  muffs,"  as  she 
styled  Mrs.  Morton  and  Mrs.  Hayden.  And  here  she 
received  her  friends,  as  she  called  them, — and  laughed, 
and  flirted,  and  played  with  them,  but  was  very  careful 
not  to  overstep  certain  bounds  of  propriety,  and  thus 
give  Everard  an  excuse  on  which  to  base  an  action  for 
divorce,  should  he  ever  bring  himself  to  consider  such  an 
act,  which  she  doubted.  He  was  too  proud  for  that,  and 
would  rather  live  with  and  dislike  her,  than  repudiate 
her  openly,  and  bring  a  stain  upon  the  Forrest  name.  It 
was  impossible  for  her  to  understand  Tiis  real  feelings 
toward  her.  Indifferent  he  was,  of  course,  and  sorry,  no 
doubt,  for  the  tie  which  bound  them;  but  she  was  so 
thoroughly  convinced  of  her  own  charms  and  power  to 
fascinate,  that  she  had  little  fear  of  winning  him  back  to 
something  like  allegiance  when  she  once  had  him  under 
her  influence  again.  He  could  not  resist  her;  no  man 
could,  except  the  old  judge;  and  secure  in  this  belief  she 
went  on  her  way,  while  Beatrice  watched  her  narrowly, 
and  began  at  last  to  believe  there  was  no  real  good  in 
her. 

"  The  most  shameless  flirt  I  ever  saw,  with  claws  like 
a  cat,"  Mrs.  Hayden  said  of  her, — "  why,  she  has  actually 
tried  her  power  on  Harry,  and  asked  him  so  insinuat- 
ingly and  pityingly  if  he  really  thought  oatmeal  agreed 
with  him  as  well  as  a  juicy  steak  or  mutton-chop." 

Bee  laughed  merrily  at  the  idea  of  Josey's  casting  her 
eyes  upon  poor,  shriveled,  dyspeptic  Harry  Hayden, 
whom,  to  do  her  justice,  she  did  pity,  for  the  cold  baths 
he  was  compelled  to  take  every  morning,  and  the  rigid 
diet  on  which  he  was  kept.  That  he  lacked  brain  force, 
as  his  wife  asserted,  she  did  not  doubt,  or  he  would 
never  have  submitted  as  meekly  as  he  did,  with  the  ste- 
reotyped phrase,  "Julie  knows  best,"  but  she  pitied  him 
just  the  samer  and  occasionally  conveyed  to  him  on  the 
sly  hot  cups  of  beef-tea  or  mutton-broth,  and  once 


216  JOSEPHINES    CONFIDENCE. 

coaxed  him  to  drink  lager-beer,  but  Mrs.  Julia  found  it 
out  by  the  culprit's  breath,  and  disliked  Josey  worse 
than  ever. 

It  was  now  five  weeks  since  Beatrice  first  came  to 
Hoi  burton,  and  as  Mrs.  Morton  did  not  seem  to  im- 
prove, she  was  thinking  of  finding  another  place  for  her, 
when  Josephine  came  to  her  one  morning  as  she  was 
sitting  alone  with  her  work,  and,  taking  a  seat  beside  her, 
began  to  talk  of  herself  and  the  life  she  was  leading. 

"  I  am  of  no  use  to  any  one,"  she  said,  "  for  both 
mother  and  Agnes  are  afraid  I  shall  soil  my  hands »or 
burn  my  face.  I  am  tired  of  this  kind  of  life.  I  want 
to  see  the  world  and  have  larger  experiences  ;  and  for- 
tunately I  have  an  opportunity  to  do  so.  When  I  was 
at  the  sea-side  I  met  a  widow-lady,  a  Mrs.  Arnold,  who 
is  rich  and  an  invalid.  She  was  kind  enough  to  pretend 
to  like  me,  and  I  think  she  did,  for  I  have  received  a 
letter  from  her,  asking  me  to  go  as  a  companion  with 
her  to  Europe,  she  defraying  all  the  expenses,  of  course, 
and  leaving  me  nothing  to  do  but  to  make  myself  agree- 
able to  her,  and  enjoy  what  I  see.  Now,  would  you  go  or 
not  ?" 

"  I  think  I  would,"  Beatrice  replied,  for  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  this  going  to  Europe  would  somehow  be  the 
severing  link  between  Everard  and  Josephine.  Some- 
thing would  happen  to  bring  on  the  crisis  which  must 
come  sooner  or  later. 

"I  would  go,  most  certainly,"  she  said  again,  and  then 
she  asked  some  questions  concerning  Mrs.  Arnold,  whose 
letter  Josey  showed  to  her.  Evidently  she  was  not  a 
woman  of  great  discernment  or  culture,  but  she  was  sin- 
cere in  her  wish  to  take  Josephine  abroad,  and  disposed 
to  be  very  generous  with  her. 

"  She  will  be  gone  a  year  at  least,  and  possibly  two, 
and  I  can  see  so  much  in  that  time,  I  am  quite  dizzy  with 
anticipation,"  Josephine  said,  while  Beatrice  entered 
heart  and  soul  into  the  project,  which  was  soon  known 
to  the  entire  household.  That  night  young  Gerard  from 
Albany  called  on  Josephine  as  usual,  and  hearing  of  the 
proposed  trip  to  Europe  offered  himself  to  her,  and  cried 
like  a  baby  when  she  gave  him  her  final  "  no,"  and  made 
him  understand  that  she  meant  it.  But  she  held  his 
hand  in  hers,  and  there  was  one  of  her  tears  on  his  boy- 


JOSEPHINE'S    CONFIDENCE.  217 

ish  face  when  at  last  he  said  good -night  and  walked 
away,  somewhat  soothed  and  comforted  with  the  thought 
that  he  was  to  be  her  friend  of  friends,  the  one  held  as 
the  dearest  and  best  in  her  memory  when  she  was  far 
over  the  sea. 

The  news  of  the  intended  journey  made  Everard 
wild  with  delight,  for,  with  the  ocean  between  them,  he 
felt  that  he  should  almost  be  free  again  ;  and  he  sent  her 
a  hundred  dollars,  and  told  her  he  hoped  she  would 
enjoy  herself,  and  then,  intoxicated  with  what  seemed 
to  him  like  his  freedom,  went  up  to  see  Rosamond,  and 
staid  with  her  until  the  clock  was  striking  ten,  and 
Mrs.  Markham  came  into  the  room  to  break  up  the  tete- 
a-tete. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  August  that  the  Nova  Zembla 
sailed  out  of  the  harbor  of  Boston  with  Josephine  on 
board,  her  fair  hands  waving  kisses  and  adieux  to  the 
two  men  on  the  shore,  watching  her  so  intently, — young 
Gerard  and  old  Captain  Sparks,  who  had  followed  her 
to  the  very  last,  each  vieing  with  the  other  in  the  size 
and  cost  of  the  bouquets,  which  filled  one  entire  half  of 
a  table  in  the  dining  saloon,  and  stamped  as  somebody 
the  beautiful  girl  who  paraded  them  rather  ostentatiously 
before  her  fellow-passengers. 

For  two  days  they  adorned  the  table  at  which  she 
sat,  and  filled  the  saloon  with  perfume,  and  were  ex- 
amined and  talked  about,  and  she  was  pointed  out  as 
that  young  lady  who  had  so  many  large  and  elegant 
bouquets;  and  then,  the  third  day  out,  when  their  beauty 
and  perfume  were  gone,  they  were  thrown  overboard  by 
the  cabin-boy,  and  a  great  wave  came  and  carried  them 
far  out  to  sea,  while  Josey  lay  in  her  berth  limp,  wretched 
and  helpless,  with  no  thought  of  flowers,  or  Gerard,  or 
Captain  Sparks,  but  with  a  feeling  of  genuine  longing 
for  the  mother  and  Agnes,  whose  care  and  ministrations 
she  missed  so  much  in  her  miserable  condition. 
10 


218  EVENTS     OF    ONE    TEAR 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

EVENTS    OF    ONE  YEAR    AT    THE  FORREST  HOUSE. 

T  was  near  the  last  of  October  when  Bee  re- 
turned to  Rothsay,  where  Everard  greeted 
her  gladly  as  one  who  could  understand,  and 
sympathize  with  him.  It  had  come  to  him 
at  last  like  a  shock  that  he  loved  Rosamond 
Hastings  as  he  had  never  loved  Josephine,  even  in  the 
days  of  his  wildest  infatuation  ;  and  far  different  from 
that  first  feverish,  unhealthy  passion  of  his  boyhood  was 
this  mightier  love  of  his  maturer  manhood,  which  threat- 
ened at  last  to  master  him  so  completely  that  he  deter- 
mined at  last  to  go  away  from  Rothsay  for  a  month,  and, 
amid  the  wilds  of  California  and  the  rocky  dells  of  Ore- 
gon try  to  forget  the  girl  whom  to  love  was  sin. 

To  Beatrice  he  confessed  everything,  and  rebelled 
hotly  against  the  bar  which  kept  him  from  his  love, 

He  had  thought  of  divorce,  he  said.  He  could  easily 
obtain  one  under  the  circumstances,  but  he  was  sure 
Rossie  would  never  believe  in  any  divorce  which  was  not 
sanctioned  by  the  Bible.  He  had  assumed  a  case  similar 
to  his  own,  which  he  pretended  was  pending  in  the 
court,  and  warmly  espousing  the  husband's  cause,  had 
asked  Rosamond  if  she  did  not  think  it  perfectly  right 
for  the  man  to  marry  again. 

And  she  had  answered  decidedly  : 

"I  should  despise  him  and  the  woman  who  married 
him.  I  abominate  these  divorces  so  easily  obtained.  It 
is  wicked,  and  God  will  never  forgive  it." 

After  this  there  was  nothing  for  Everard  to  do  but 
to  take  up  his  burden  and  carry  it  away  with  him  to  the 
Far  West,  hoping  to  leave  it  there.  But  he  did  not,  and 
lie  came  back  to  Rothsay  to  find  Rossie  sweeter,  fairer 
than  ever,  and  so  unfeigned ly  glad  to  see  him  that  for 
an  hour  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  happiness  of  the 
moment,  and  defying  both  right  and  wrong,  said  things 
which  deepened  the  bloom  on  Rossie's  cheeks,  and 
brought  to  her  eyes  that  new  light  which  is  so  beautiful 


AT     THE    FORREST    HOUSE.  219 

in  its  dawning,  and  which  no  one  can  mistake  who  is 
skilled  in  its  signs. 

He  did  not  tell  her  he  loved  her  ;  but  he  told  her  how 
he  had  missed  her,  and  how  she  alone  had  brought  him 
back  sooner  than  he  meant  to  come.  And  with  a  shyness 
which  sat  so  prettily  on  her,  and  a  drooping  of  the  eye- 
lids, she  listened  to  him,  and  though  she  said  but  little 
the  mischief  was  done,  and  never  again  would  her  eyes 
meet  his  as  frankly  and  readily  as  before.  Something  in 
the  tone  of  his  voice  and  the  unwonted  tenderness  of  his 
manner  kindled  a  fire  in  that  young  heart  which  many 
waters  could  not  extinguish,  and  to  Rossie  it  came  with 
a  thrill,  half  fearful,  half  ecstatic,  that  she  loved  Everard 
Forrest,  not  as  a  sister  loves  a  brother  or  friend  loves 
friend,  but  as  a  true,  good  woman  loves  the  one  who  to 
her  is  the  only  man  in  all  the  world.  But  could  she  have 
followed  him  back  to  his  room  she  would  scarcely  have 
known  the  white-faced,  haggard  man  whom  the  dawn 
found  with  his  head  resting  upon  the  table,  where  it  had 
lain  most  of  the  night,  while  he  fought  the  demon  trying 
so  hard  to  conquer  him.  He  must  not  love  Rosamond 
Hastings  ;  he  must  not  let  her  love  him  ;  and  to  prevent 
it  he  must  tell  her  the  whole  truth,  and  this  was  what  he 
was  trying  to  make  up  his  mind  to  do. 

Possibly  his  resolution  to  confess  the  whole  to  Rosa- 
mond was  in  a  measure  prompted  by  a  sudden  fear  which 
had  come  upon  him  lest  the  knowledge  of  his  marriage 
should  reach  her  through  some  other  channel.  On  his 
return  from  Oregon,  and  before  he  went  to  the  Forrest 
House,  he  had  found  several  letters  which  had  come  dur- 
ing his  absence,  and  which  had  not  been  forwarded. 
One  was  from  Josephine,  who  was  still  abroad  and  per- 
fectly happy,  if  her  word  was  to  be  believed.  She  had 
found  Mrs.  Arnold  everything  that  was  kind,  and  gene- 
rous, and  considerate  ;  had  made  many  delightful  ac- 
quaintances ;  had  learned  to  speak  both  German  and 
French,  and  had  come  across  Dr.  Matthewson,  who  was 
at  the  same  hotel  with  herself,  the  Victoria,  in  Dresden. 

This  letter  did  not  particularly  affect  Everard  either 
way.  Dresden  was  very  far  off,  and  Josephine  might  re- 
main abroad  another  year,  and  into  that  time  so  much 
happiness  might  be  crowded  that  he  would  take  the  good 
offered  him,  and  not  cross  the  river  of  difficulty  until  he 


220  EVENTS     OF     ONE     YEAR 

fairly  reached  it.  But  on  his  return  from  the  Forrest 
House  he  found  two  more  letters  on  his  desk,  one  post- 
marked at  Dresden,  the  other  at  Holburton,  and  this  he 
opened  first.  It  was  from  Agnes,  and  had  been  sometime 
on  the  road,  and  told  him  that  Mrs.  Fleming  had  died 
suddenly,  after  an  illness  of  two  days  only,  and  Agnes 
was  left  alone.  There  was  still  a  mortgage  on  the  house, 
she  said,  and  after  that  was  paid,  and  the  few  debts  they 
were  owing,  there  would  be  but  little  left  for  her,  and 
this  little  she  must,  of  course,  divide  with  Josephine. 
She  offered  no  complaint,  nor  asked  for  any  help.  She 
said  she  could  take  care  of  herself,  either  as  housekeeper, 
cook,  or  nurse,  and,  on  the  whole,  she  seemed  to  be  in  a 
very  resigned  and  cheerful  state  of  mind  for  a  person 
left  so  entirely  alone.  The  other  letter  proved  to  be 
from  a  Cincinnati  acquaintance,  with  whom  he  cud  once 
been  at  school,  and  who  had  recently  married  and  gone 
abroad,  and  was  in  Dresden,  at  the  Victoria  Hotel,  where, 
he  said,  there  were  many  pleasant  Americans,  both  from 
Boston  and  New  York,  and  Everard  felt  morally  sure 
that  the  pleasant  people  from  Boston  were  Mrs.  Arnold 
and  Josephine.  And  his  friend,  Phil.  Evarts,  was  just 
the  man  to  be  attracted  by  Josey,  even  if  he  had  a  hun- 
dred wives,  and  Josephine  was  sure  to  meet  him  more 
than  half-way,  and  find  out  first  that  be  was  from  Cincin- 
nati, and  then  that  he  had  been  in  Rothsay,  and  knew 
Judge  Forrest's  family,  and  then, — a  cold  sweat  broke 
out  all  over  Everard's  face  as  he  thought,  what  then  f 
while  something  whispered  to  him,  "Then  you  will  reap 
the  fruit  of  the  deception  practiced  so  long,  and  you  de- 
serve it,  too." 

Everard  knew  he  deserved  it,  but  when  one  is  reaping 
the  whirlwind,  I  do  not  think  it  is  any  comfort  to  know 
that  he  has  sowed  the  wind,  or  this  harvest  would  never 
have  been.  It  certainly  did  not  help  Everard,  but  rather 
added  to  the  torments  he  endured  as  he  thought  of  Jose- 
phine, enraged  and  infuriated,  swooping  down  upon  him, 
bristling  all  over  with  injured  innocence,  and  making  for 
herself  a  strong  party,  as  she  was  sure  to  do.  But  worse 
than  all  woald  be  the  utter  loss  of  Rossie,  for  she  would 
be  lost  to  him  forever,  and  possibly  turn  against  him  for 
his  duplicity,  and  that  he  could  not  bear. 

"I'll  tell  her  to-morrow,  so  help   me  Heaven!"  he 


AT     THE    FOREEST    HOUSE.  221 

said,  as  he  laid  his  throbbing  head  upon  his  writing- 
table  and  tried  to  think  how  he  should  commence,  and 
what  she  would  say. 

He  knew  how  she  would  look, — not  scornfully  and 
angrily  upon  him, — but  so  sorry,  so  disappointed,  and 
that  would  hurt  him  worse  than  her  contempt.  How 
fair  and  sweet  she  seemed  to  him,  as  he  went  over  all 
the  past  as  connected  with  her,  remembering,  first,  the 
quaint,  old-fashioned  child  he  had  teased  so  unmercifully, 
and  of  whom  he  had  made  a  very  slave  ;  then  the  girl  of 
fifteen,  whose  honest  eyes  had  looked  straight  into  his 
without  a  shadow  of  shame  or  consciousness,  as  she 
asked  to  be  his  wife  ;  and,  lastly,  the  Rossie  of  to-day, 
the  Rossie  of  long  dresses  and  pure  womanhood,  who 
was  so  dear  to  him  that  to  have  had  her  for  his  own  for 
one  short,  blessed  year  he  felt  that  he  would  give  the 
rest  of  his  life.  But  that  could  not  be.  She  could 
never  be  his,  even  were  he  free  from  the  hated  tie,  as  he 
could  be  so  easily.  In  her  single-heartedness  and  truth 
she  would  never  recognize  as  valid  any  separation  save 
that  which  death  might  make,  and  this  he  dared  not 
wish  for,  lest  to  his  other  sins  that  of  murder  should  be 
added.  He  must  tell  her,  and  she  would  forgive  him, 
even  while  she  banished  him  from  her  presence  ;  but 
after  she  knew  it,  whose  opinion  was  worth  more  to  him 
than  that  of  the  whole  world,  he  could  bear  whatever 
else  might  come.  But  how  could  he  tell  her?  Ver- 
bally ?  and  so  see  the  surprise,  and  disappointment,  and 
pain  which  would  succeed  each  other  so  rapidly  in  those 
clear,  innocent  eyes  which  faithfully  mirrored  what  she 
felt.  He  knew  there  would  be  pain,  for  as  he  loved  her 
so  he  felt  that  she  cared  or  could  care  for  him,  if  only  it 
were  right  for  her  to  do  so,  and  selfish  as  he  was,  it  hurt 
him  cruelly  that  she  must  suffer  through  his  fault.  But 
it  must  be,  and,  at  last,  concluding  that  he  never  could 
sit  face  to  face  with  her  while  he  confessed  his  secret, 
he  decided  to  write  it  out  and  send  it  to  her,  and  then 
wait  a  few  days  before  going  to  see  the  effect.  He 
made  this  resolve  just  as  the  autumnal  morning  shone 
full  into  his  room,  and  he  heard  across  the  common  the 
bell  from  his  boarding-house  summoning  him  to  break- 
fast. But  he  could  not  eat,  and  after  a  vain  effort  at 
swallowing  a  little  coffee,  he  went  back  to  his  office, 


223  EVENTS     OF    ONE     TEAR 

where,  to  his  utter  amazement  and  discomfiture,  he 
found  Rosamond  herself  seated  in  his  chair  and  smiling 
brightly  upon  him  as  he  came  in. 

When  he  was  with  her  the  night  before  she  had  for- 
gotten to  speak  to  him  of  a  certain  matter  of  business 
which  must  be  attended  to  that  day,  and  immediately 
after  breakfast,  which  was  always  early  at  the  Forrest 
House,  she  had  walked  down  to  the  office,  and  telling 
the  boy  in  attendance  that  he  need  not  wait  until  Mr. 
Forrest's  return,  she  sent  him  to  his  breakfast,  and  was 
there  alone  when  Everard  came  in. 

"  Oh,  Rossie,  Rossie,"  he  gasped,  as  if  the  sight  of  her 
unnerved  him  entirely,  "  why  did  you  come  here  this 
morning  ?" 

She  did  not  tell  him  why  she  came,  for  she  forgot  her 
errand  entirely,  in  her  alarm  at  his  white,  haggard  face, 
and  the  strangeness  of  his  manner. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Everard  !"  she  cried,  for  she  called  him 
"  Mr.  Everard"  still,  as  she  had  done  when  a  child.  "  You 
are  sick.  What  is  the  matter?  Sit  down  and  let  me 
do  something  for  you.  Are  you  faint,  or  what  is  it  ?" 
and,  talking  to  him  all  the  time,  she  made  him  sit  down 
in  the  chair  she  vacated,  and  brought  him  some  water, 
which  he  refused,  and  then,  standing  beside  him,  laid  her 
soft,  cool  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and  asked  if  the  pain 
was  there. 

At  the  touch  of  those  hands  Everard  felt  that  he  was 
losing  all  his  self-command.  Except  as  he  had  held  them 
a  moment  in  his  own  when  he  met  her,  or  said  good-by, 
he  had  not  felt  those  dainty  fingers  on  his  flesh  since  the 
weeks  of  his  sickness  after  his  mother's  death,  when 
Rossie  had  been  his  nurse,  and  smoothed  his  aching  brow 
as  she  was  doing  now.  Then  her  hands  had  a  strange 
power  to  soothe  and  quiet  him,  but  now  they  made  him 
wild.  He  could  not  bear  it,  and,  pushing  her  almost 
rudely  from  him,  he  exclaimed:  "  Don't,  Rossie!  I  can't 
bear  that  you  should  touch  me." 

There  were  tears  in  Rossie's  eyes  at  being  so  repulsed, 
and  for  an  instant  her  cheeks  grew  scarlet  with  resent- 
ment, but  before  she  could  speak,  overcome  by  an  im- 
pulse he  could  not  resist,  Everard  gathered  her  swiftly  in 
his  arms,  and,  kissing  her  passionately,  said  : 

"  Forgive  me,  Rossie.     I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude, 


AT    THE    FOHRE8T    HOUSE.  223 

but  why  did  you  come  here  this  morning  to  tempt  me. 
I  was  going  to  write  and  tell,  you  what  I  ought  to  have 
told  you  long  ago,  and  the  sight  of  you  makes  me  such  a 
coward.  Rossie,my  darli?ig ;  I  will  call  you  so  once, 
though  it's  wrong,  it's  wicked, — remember  that.  I  am 
not  what  I  seem.  I  have  deceived  you  all  these  years 
since  father  died,  and  before,  too, — long  before.  You 
cannot  guess  what  a  wretch  I  am." 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Rossie  had  thought  of  Joe 
Fleming,  with  whom  she  believed  Everard  had  broken 
altogether  ;  but  she  remembered  him  now,  and,  at  once 
attributing  Everard's  trouble  to  that  source,  she  said,  in 
her  old,  child-like  way  : 

"It's  Joe  Fleming  again,  Mr.  Everard,  and  I  hoped 
you  were  done  with  him  forever." 

She  was  very  pale,  and  her  eyes  had  a  startled  look, 
for  the  sudden  caress  and  the  words  "  my  darling,"  had 
shaken  her  nerves,  and  roused  in  her  a  tumult  of  joy  and 
dread  of  she  scarcely  knew  what ;  but  she  looked  stead- 
ily at  Everard,  who  answered  her  bitterly  : 

"Yes,  it  is  Joe  Fleming, — always  Joe  Fleming, — and 
I  am  going  to  tell  you  about  it ;  but,  Rossie,  you  must 
promise  not  to  hate  me,  or  I  never  can  tell  you.  Bee 
knows  and  does  not  hate  me.  Do  you  promise,  Rossie?" 

"Yes,  I  promise,  and  I'll  help  you  if  I  can," Rossie  said, 
without  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  nature  of  the  trouble. 

She  never  suspected  anything.  The  shrewd,  far-see- 
ing ones,  who  scent  evil  from  afar,  would  say  of  her 
that  she  was  neither  deep  nor  quick,  and  possibly  she 
was  not.  Wholly  guileless  herself,  she  never  looked  for 
wrong  until  it  was  thrust  in  her  face,  and  so  was  easily 
deceived  by  what  seemed  to  be  good.  She  certainly 
suspected  no  evil  in  Everard,  and  was  anxious  to  hear 
the  story  which  he  would  have  told  her  had  it  not  been 
for  an  interruption  in  the  shape  of  Lawyer  Russell,  who 
came  suddenly  into  the  office,  bringing  with  him  a 
stranger  who  wished  to  consult  with  both  the  old  lawyer 
and  the  young.  That,  of  course,  broke  up  the  confer- 
ence, and  Rosamond  was  compelled  to  retire,  thinking 
more  of  the  hot  kiss  which  she  could  still  feel  upon  her 
forehead,  and  the  words  "  my  darling,"  as  spoken  by 
Everard,  than  of  the  story  he  had  to  tell. 

And  all  that  day  she  flitted  about  the  house,  warbling 


224  EVENTS     OF     ONE     TEAR 

snatches  of  song,  and  occasionally  repeating  to  herself 
"  my  darling,"  as  Everard  had  said  it  to  her.  If  indeed 
she  were  his  darling,  then  nothing  should  separate  them 
from  each  other.  She  did  not  care  for  his  past  misdeeds, 
— or  for  Joe  Fleming.  That  was  in  the  past.  She  be- 
lieved in  Everard  as  he  was  now,  and  loved  him,  too. 
She  acknowledged  that  to  herself,  and  her  face  burned 
with  blushes  as  she  did  so.  And,  looking  back  over  the 
past,  she  could  not  remember  a  time  when  she  did  not 
love  him,  or  rather  worship  him,  as  the  one  hero  in  the 
world  worthy  of  her  worship.  And  now? — Rossie  conld 
not  give  expression  to  what  she  felt  now,  or  analyze  the 
great  happiness  dawning  upon  her,  with  the  belief  that 
as  she  loved  Everard  Forrest,  so  was  she  loved  in  return. 
She  was  very  beautiful  with  this  new  light  shining  over 
her  face,  and  very  beautiful  without  it.  It  was  now  two 
years  since  she  went  unabashed  to  Everard  and  asked  to 
be  his  wife.  Then  she  was  fifteen  and  a-half,  and  a  mere 
child,  so  far  as  knowledge  of  the  world  was  concerned, 
and  in  some  respects  she  was  a  child  still,  though  she 
was  seventeen  and  had  budded  into  a  most  lovely  type 
of  womanhood.  Her  features  were  not  as  regular  as 
Bee's,  nor  her  complexion  as  soft  and  waxen  ;  but  it  was 
very  fresh  and  bright  and  clear,  and  there  was  something 
inexpressibly  sweet  and  attractive  in  her  face  and  the  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes,  while  her  rippling  hair  was  wound  in 
masses  about  her  well-shaped  head,  adding  somewhat  to 
her  apparent  height  and  giving  her  a  more  womanly  ap- 
pearance than  when  she  wore  it  loosely  in  her  neck.  If 
Rossie  thought  herself  pretty,  it  was  never  apparent  in 
her  manner.  Indeed,  she  never  seemed  to  think  of  her- 
self at  all,  though,  as  the  day  of  which  I  arn  writing 
drew  to  a  close,  she  did  spend  more  time  than  usual  at 
her  toilet,  and  when  it  was  finished  felt  tolerably  satis- 
fied with  the  image  reflected  by  her  mirror,  and  was  sure 
that  Everard  would  be  suited,  too.  He  would  come  that 
night,  of  course.  There  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do 
after  the  events  of  the  morning. 

But  Everard  did  not  come,  and  about  noon  of  the 
next  day  she  received  a  few  lines  from  him  saying  that 
a  business  matter,  of  which  Lawyer  Russell"  and  the 
stranger  with  him  were  the  harbingers,  would  take  him 
for  a  week  or  more,  to  southern  Indiana.  lie  had  not 


SOMETHING    DOES    HAPPEN.  225 

time  to  say  good-by  in  person,  but  he  would  write  to 
her  from  Dighton,  and  he  hoped  to  find  her  well  on  his 
return. 

That  was  all.  Not  an  allusion  to  the  confession  he 
was  going  to  make, — not  a  sign  that  he  had  held  her  for 
a  moment  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  passionate!}',  while 
he  called  her  his  darling.  He  was  going  away  on  busi- 
ness and  would  write  to  her.  Nothing  could  be  briefer 
or  more  informal,  though  he  called  her  his  dear  Rossie. 
And  Rossie,  whose  faith  was  not  easily  shaken,  felt  that 
she  was  dear  to  him  even  though  he  disappointed  her. 
She  would  hold  to  that  while  he  was  absent,  and  though 
her  face  was  not  quite  as  bright  and  joyous  as  the  night 
before,  there  was  upon  it  an  expression  of  happiness  and 
content  which  made  watchful  Mrs.  Markham  think 
that,  as  she  expressed  it  to  herself,  "  something  had  hap- 
pened." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

SOMETHING  DOES   HAPPEN. 

T  had  rained  all  day  in  Dresden, — a  steady, 
persistent  rain,  which  kept  the  guests  of  the 
Hotel  Victoria  in-doors,  and  made  them  so 
tired,  and  uncomfortable,  and  restless  that 
by  night  every  shadow  of  reserve  was  swept 
away,  and  they  were  ready  to  talk  to  any  one  who  would 
answer  them  in  their  own  tongue.  Conspicuous  among 
the  guests  assembled  in  the  parlor  was  Miss  Fleming, — 
"  Miss  Josephine  Fleming,  Boston,  U.  S.  A.,"  she  was 
registered,  and  she  passed  for  one  of  those  Bostonians 
who,  whether  deservedly  or  not,  get  the  reputation 
abroad  of  being  very  exclusive,  and  proud,  and  unap- 
proachable. Just  now  this  character  suited  Josephine, 
for  she  found  that  she  was  more  talked  about  when  she 
was  reserved  and  dignified  than  when  she  was  forward 
and  flippant ;  so,  though  they  had  been  at  the  Victoria 
some  weeks,  she  had  made  but  few  acquaintances,  and 
these  among  the  English  and  the  most  aristocratic  of  the 

10* 


226  SOMETHING    DOES    HAPPEN. 

Americans.  And  Josephine  had  never  been  so  beautiful 
as  she  was  now.  And  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  she  was  always  the  most  attractive  woman  in 
every  company,  and  the  one  most  sought  after.  Of  her 
poverty  she  made  no  secret,  and  did  not  try  to  conceal 
the  fact  that  she  was  Mrs.  Arnold's  companion.  But 
she  had  seen  better  days,  of  course,  before  papa  died  and 
left  his  affairs  so  involved  that  they  lost  everything,  and 
mamma  was  compelled  to  take  a  few  boarders  to  eke  out 
their  income. 

This  was  her  story,  which  took  well  when  told  by 
herself,  with  sweet  pathos  in  her  voice  and  a  drooping 
of  her  long  lashes  over  her  lovely  blue  eyes.  Every  one 
of  her  acquaintances  of  any  account  in  America  had  been 
stepping-stones  in  Europe,  where  she  met  people  who 
knew  the  Gerards,  and  John  Hayden,  and  Miss  Belknap, 
who  was  her  very  heaviest  card,  the  one  she  played  most 
frequently,  and  with  the  best  success.  The  New  Yorkers 
all  knew  Beatrice,  and  were  inclined  to  be  very  gracious 
to  her  friend.  Occasionally  she  had  come  across  some 
graduate  from  Amherst,  whom  she  had  met  before,  but 
never  till  the  rainy  day  with  which  this  chapter  opens 
had  she  seen  any  one  from  the  vicinity  of  Rothsay,  or 
who  knew  her  husband  personally.  She  was  in  the 
habit  of  looking  over  the  list  of  arrivals,  and  had  seen 
the  names  of  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Philip  Evarts,  Cincinnati, 
IT.  S.  A.,"  and  had  readily  singled  out  the  new-comers  at 
table  d'hote,  divining  at  once  that  the  lady  was  a  bride  ; 
but  no  words  had  passed  between  them  until  the  even- 
ing of  the  rainy  day  ;  then  Josephine  entered  the  parlor 
faultlessly  gotten  up,  and  looking  very  sweet  and  lovely 
in  her  dark-blue  silk  and  velvet  jacket,  with  her  golden 
hair  caught  up  with  an  ivory  comb.  Nothing  could  be 
prettier  than  she  was,  and  Phil  Evarts,  who,  as  Everard 
had  said,  was  just  the  man  to  be  attracted  by  such  a 
woman  as  Josephine,  and  whose  wife  was  sick  with  a 
headache  in  her  room,  managed  to  get  near  the  beauty, 
who  took  a  seat  apart  from  the  others,  and  met  his  ad- 
vance with  a  swift  glance  of  her  dreamy  eyes,  which 
made  his  heart  beat  faster  than  a  man's  heart  ought  to 
beat  when  his  wife  is  up-stairs  with  the  headache. 

It  was  her  business  to  speak  first,  and  she  said,  very 
modestly  : 


SOMETHING    DOES    HAPPEN.  227 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  do  you  know  if  there  has  been 
a  mail  since  lunch  ?" 

"  I  don't,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  will  inquire.  I  am  just 
going  to  the  office.  What  name  shall  I  ask  for  ?" 

She  told  him,  and  during  the  few  minutes  he  was 
gone  he  found  out  who  Miss  Fleming  from  Boston  was, 
and  all  about  her  that  the  English-speaking  clerk  knew. 
But  there  was  no  letter  for  her,  for  which  he  was  very 
sorry.  She  was  sorry,  too  ;  she  did  so  want  to  hear 
from  home  and  sister.  She  did  not  say  mamma,  for  she 
knew  her  mother  was  dead,  and  had  known  it  for  a  week, 
and  kept  it  to  herself  until  she  could  decide  whether  to 
wear  black  or  not,  and  so  shut  herself  out  from  any 
amusements  they  might  have  in  Paris,  where  they  were 
going  next. 

Naturally  the  two  began  to  talk  of  America,  and 
when  Mr.  Evarts  spoke  of  Cincinnati  as  his  home,  she 
said: 

"  I  have  a  friend  who  was  once  at  school  there. 
Everard  Forrest,  of  Rothsay,  do  you  know  him  ?" 

She  had  no  idea  that  he  did,  and  was  astonished  at 
the  vehemence  with  which  he  responded  : 

"  Ned  Forrest,  of  Rothsay  !  Of  course  I  know  him. 
We  were  at  school  together.  He's  the  best  fellow  in  the 
world.  And  he  is  your  friend,  too  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Josey  answered,  beginning  at  once  to  calcu- 
late how  much  knowledge  of  Everard  she  would  confess 
to.  "  I  knew  him  when  he  was  in  college  at  Amherst. 
We  lived  in  Hoi  burton  then,  a  little  town  over  the  line 
in  New  York,  and  he  was  sometimes  there,  but  I  have 
not  seen  him  for  a  long  time.  I  hope  he  is  well." 

"He  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him,  which  was  three  or 
four  months  ago,  perhaps  more,"  Mr.  Evarts  replied. 
"  He  was  in  the  city  for  a  day,  and  I  saw  him  just  a  mo- 
ment. He  is  working  like  a  dog  ;  sticks  to  his  business 
like  a  burr,  which  is  so  different  from  what  I  thought 
he'd  do,  and  he  so  rich,  too." 

"Is  he?"  Josephine  asked;  and  Evarts  replied: 

"  Why,  yes;  his  father  must  have  been  worth  half  a 
million,  at  least,  and  Ned  got  the  whole,  I  suppose. 
There  are  no  other  heirs,  unless  something  was  given  to 
that  girl  who  lived  in  the  family.  Rosamond  Hastings 
was  the  name,  I  think." 


228  SOMETHING    DOES    HAPPEN. 


"  Is  his  father  dead?"  Josephine  asked;  and  in  her 
voice  there  was  a  sharp  ring  which  even  stupid  Phil 
Evarts  detected  and  wondered  at. 

"Dead?  Yes,"  he  replied.  "He  has  been  dead  I 
should  say  nearly,  if  not  quite,  two  years." 

Josephine  was  for  a  moment  speechless.  Never  in 
her  life  had  she  received  so  great  a  shock.  That  Judge 
Forrest  should  have  been  dead  two  years  and  she  in 
ignorance  of  it  seemed  impossible,  and  her  first  feeling 
after  she  began  to  rally  a  little  was  one  of  incredulity, 
and  she  asked: 

"Are  you  not  mistaken  ?" 

"No,  I'm  not,"  Mr.  Evarts  replied.  "I  saw  Everard 
in  Covington  a  few  weeks  after  his  father's  death,  and 
talked  to  him  of  the  sickness,  which  was  apoplexy  or 
something  of  that  sort.  Anyway,  it  was  sudden,  and 
Ned  looked  as  if  he  hadn't  a  friend  in  the  world.  I  did 
not  suppose  he  cared  so  much  for  his  father,  who,  I 
always  thought,  was  a  cross  old  tyrant.  I  used  to 
visit  at  Forrest  House  occasionally  years  ago,  when  we 
were  boys,  but  have  not  been  there  since  the  judge's 
death.  Ned  does  not  often  come  to  Cincinnati,  and  as  I 
have  been  gone  most  of  the  time  for  the  last  two  years, 
I  have  heard  but  little  of  him." 

"  How  long,  did  you  say,  has  his  father  been  dead  ?" 
Josephine  asked  ;  and  Mr.  Evarts  replied  : 

"It  must  be  two  years  in  November,  or  there- 
abouts." 

"  And  this  Rosamond  Hastings  who  lives  there,  how 
old  is  she,  and  is  he  going  to  marry  her?"  Josephine 
asked  next ;  while  Evarts  thought  to  himself  : 

"Jealous,  I  do  believe,"  but  he  answered  her  : 

"  Miss  Hastings  must  be  seventeen  or  eighteen,  and 
when  I  saw  her,  five  or  six  years  ago,  was  not  so  very 
handsome." 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  Josey  said,  and  as  she  just  then  saw 
Mrs.  Arnold  coming  into  the  salon,  she  bowed  to  her  new 
acquaintance,  and  walked  away,  with  such  a  tumult  in 
her  bosom  as  she  had  never  before  experienced. 

It  would  take  her  a  little  time  to  recover  herself  and 
decide  what  to  do.  She  must  have  leisure  for  reflection; 
and  she  took  it  that  night  in  her  room,  and  sat  up  the  en- 
tire night  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  last  two  years, 


SOMETHING    DOES    HAPPEN.  229 

as  connected  with  Everard,  and  coming  at  last  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  was  a  scoundrel,  whom  it  was  her  duty 
as  well  as  pleasure  to  punish  by  going  to  America  at 
once  and  claiming  him  as  her  husband. 

In  the  first  days  of  her  sudden  bereavement,  Agnes' 
kind  heart  had  gone  out  with  a  great  yearning  for  her 
young  sister,  to  whom  she  had  at  once  written  of  their 
mutual  loss,  saying  how  lonely  she  was,  and  how  she 
hoped  they  would  henceforth  be  more  to  each  other  than 
they  ever  had  been.  And  Josephine  had  been  touched 
and  softened,  and  had  written  very  kindly  to  Agnes,  and 
had  cried  several  times  in  secret  for  the  dead  mother 
she  would  never  see  again,  but  whose  death  she  did  not 
then  see  fit  to  announce  to  Mrs.  Arnold  ;  but  she  would 
do  so  now,  and  make  it  a  pretext  for  going  home  at  once. 
Nothing  should  keep  her  from  wreaking  swift  vengeance 
on  the  man  who  had  deliberately  deceived  her  for  two 
years,  and  who,  she  had  no  doubt,  was  faithless  to  her  in 
feeling,  if  not  in  act.  Of  course  there  was  a  woman 
concerned  in  the  matter,  and  that  woman  was  probably 
Rossie  Hastings,  who,  Mr.  Evarts  said,  was  still  living  at 
the  Forrest  House,  whither  she  meant  to  go  in  her  own 
person  as  Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest,  and  so  rout  the  enemy, 
and  establish  her  own  claims  as  a  much-injured  wife. 
She  did  not  mean  to  be  violent  or  harsh,  only  grieved, 
and  hurt,  and  forgiving,  and  she  had  no  doubt  that  in 
time  she  should  be  the  most  popular  woman  in  Rothsay, 
not  even  excepting  Beatrice,  whose  silence  with  regard 
to  the  judge's  death  she  could  not  understand,  inasmuch 
as  she  could  have  had  no  reason  for  keeping  it  a  secret. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  as  a  friend  of  Everard's 
Phil  Evarts  had  not  heard  of  the  judge's  will,  but  fo'r 
the  last  two  or  three  years  he  had  led  a  wandering  kind 
of  life,  and  spent  most  of  his  time  in  Rio  Janeiro,  and  as 
Everard  had  never  spoken  of  his  affairs  on  the  few  occa- 
sions they  had  met  since  the  judge's  death,  he  was  in 
total  ignorance  of  the  manner  in  which  the  judge  had 
disposed  of  his  property.  Had  he  known  it,  and  told 
Josephine,  she  might  have  acted  differently,  and  hesitated 
a  little  before  she  gave  up  a  situation  of  perfect  ease  and 
comparative  luxury  for  the  sake  of  a  husband  whom  she 
did  not  love,  and  who  had  nothing  for  her  support  ex- 
cept his  own  earnings.  But  she  did  not  know  this,  and 


230  SOMETHING    DOES    HAPPEN. 

she  was  eager  to  confrQnt  him  and  the  jade,  as  she  stig- 
matized Rosamond,  and  she  packed  some  of  her  clothes 
that  night  that  she  might  start  at  once. 

Fortunately  for  her  plans  the  next  morning's  mail 
from  Paris  brought  her  another  letter  from  Agnes,  who 
thought  she  might  be  anxious  to  know  what  she  had  de- 
cided to  do,  for  the  present,  at  least,  until  they  could 
consult  together.  But  Josephine  cared  very  little  what 
Agnes  did.  She  was  going  to  the  Forrest  House,  and 
she  was  glad  that  Dr.  Matthewson,  who  had  been  with 
her  for  a  time  at  the  hotel,  had  started  for  Italy  only  a 
few  days  before.  He  might  have  opposed  her  plan,  and 
she  knew  from  experience  that  it  was  hard  to  resist  the 
influence  he  had  over  her.  Utterly  reckless  and  unprin- 
cipled, he  seemed  really  to  like  this  woman,  whom  he 
thoroughly  understood,  and  in  whose  nature  he  recog- 
nized something  which  responded  to  his  own.  Two  or 
three  times  he  had  talked  openly  to  her  of  a  divorce,  and 
had  hinted  at  a  glorious  life  in  Italy  or  wherever  she 
chose  to  go.  But  Josephine  was  too  shrewd  to  consider 
that  for  a  moment.  Dr.  Matthewson  lived  only  by  his 
wits,  or  to  put  it  in  plainer  terms,  by  gambling  and  spec- 
ulation and  intrigue.  To-day  he  was  rich,  indulging  in 
every  possible  luxury  and  extravagance,  and  to-morrow 
he  was  poor  and  unable  to  pay  even  his  board  ;  and  much 
as  she  liked  him  she  had  no  fancy  to  share  his  style  of 
living.  She  preferred  rather  to  be  the  hated  wife  of 
Everard  Forrest  and  the  mistress  of  his  house  ;  so  she 
took  Agnes's  letter  to  Mrs.  Arnold,  and  with  a  great 
show  of  feeling  told  her  her  mother  was  dead,  and  her 
sister  Aggie  left  all  alone,  and  wanting  her  so  badly  that 
sTie  felt  it  her  imperative  duty  to  start  at  once  for 
America. 

"I  am  sorry,  of  course,  to  leave  you,"  she  said,  "but 
you  have  so  many  acquaintances  now,  and  your  health  is 
so  much  better,  that  you  will  do  very  nicely  without  me, 
I  am  sure,  and  I  have  long  felt  that  my  position  was 
merely  a  sinecure.  I  am  only  an  unnecessary  expense." 

Mrs.  Arnold  knew  that  to  some  extent  this  was  true. 
Josephine  was  rather  an  expensive  luxury,  and  she  had 
more  than  once  seen  in  her  signs  of  selfishness  and 
duplicity  which  shocked  and  displeased  her.  But  the 
girl  had  been  uniformly  kind  and  attentive  to  her,  and 


SOMETHING    DOES    HAPPEN.  23 J 

she  was  loth  to  part  with  her,  and  tried  to  persuade  her 
to  wait  till  spring.  But  Josephine  was  determined,  and 
seeing  this  Mrs.  Arnold  ceased  to  oppose  her,  and  gen- 
erously gave  her  two  hundred  dollars  for  her  expenses 
home;  and  Josephine  took  it,  and  smiled  sweetly  through 
her  tears,  and  kissed  her  friend  gushingly,  and  then  hur- 
ried away  to  complete  her  preparations. 

The  next  day  she  left  Dresden  for  Paris,  where  she 
staid  a  week,  while  she  selected  a  most  becoming  ward- 
robe in  black,  and  was  delighted  to  see  what  a  pretty, 
appealing  woman  she  was  in  her  mourning,  and  how  fair 
and  pure  her  skin  showed  through  her  long  crape  vail, 
and  how  blue  and  pathetic  her  eyes  looked,  especially 
when  she  managed  to  bring  a  tear  into  them. 

Of  course  she  was  noticed,  and  commented  upon, 
and  admired  on  shipboard,  and  when  it  was  known  why 
she  was  going  home  alone,  and  why  she  was  in  such 
deep  mourning,  she  had  everybody's  sympathies,  "and 
was  much  sought  after  and  petted. 

She  was  certainly  a  very  fair  picture  to  contemplate, 
and  the  male  portion  of  her  fellow  travelers  indulged  in 
that  pastime  often,  and  anticipated  her  every  movement, 
and  vied  with  each  other  in  taking  her  chair  to  the  most 
sheltered  and  comfortable  place,  and  adjusting  her 
wraps,  and  drawing  her  shawl  a  little  closer  around  her 
neck,  and  helping  her  below  whenever  she  was  at  all 
dizzy,  as  she  frequently  was  ;  and  when  at  last  the  Vitte 
de  Paris  came  into  port,  and  she  stood  on  shore,  fright- 
ened, bewildered,  and  so  much  afraid  of  those  dreadful 
custom-house  officers,  though  she  had  nothing  dutiable 
except  a  Madonna  bought  for  mamma  before  she  knew 
she  was  dead,  at  least  ten  gentlemen  stood  by  her,  reas- 
suring her  and  promising  to  see  her  through,  and  suc- 
ceeding so  well  that  not  one  of  her  four  big  trunks  was 
molested,  and  the  captain  himself  helped  her  into  the 
carriage  which  was  to  take  her  to  the  Harlem  depot. 
With  all  tne  gallantry  of  a  Frenchman  he  saw  her  com- 
fortably adjusteo,  and  squeezing  her  hand  a  little,  lifted 
his  hat  politely,  and  wishing  her  bon  voyage,  left  her  to 
drive  away  toward  the  new  life  which  was  to  be  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  old. 


MRS.   J.    E.   FORREST. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
MRS.    J  .     E.    F  ORREST. 


VERARD  had  been  gone  nearly  two  weeks  in- 
stead of  one,  and  Rosamond  had  not  heard 
from  him  except  through  Mr.  Russell,  who 
told  her  that  the  business,  which  had  refer- 
ence to  sundry  infringements  on  patents 
and  some  missing  deeds,  was  occupying  him  longer 
than  he  had  supposed  it  would,  as  it  required  much 
research  and  a  good  deal  of  travel  ;  "  but  he  ought  to  be 
home  now,  very  soon,"  he  said  to  her  one  rainy  morn- 
ing in  November,  when  he  came  to  see  her  on  business 
and  found  her  sick  in  her  room  with  a  sore  throat  and 
severe  cold.  Rossie  had  been  very  lonely  with  both 
Everard  and  Beatrice  away, — for  the  latter  had  been  in 
New  York  since  September,  and  at  last  accounts  was  on 
her  way  to  Florida  with  Mollie  Morton,  who  wished  to 
try  the  effect  of  a  milder  climate  than  Vermont,  and  as 
Mr.  Morton  could  not  leave  his  church  in  Boston,  which 
had  now  become  a  permanancy,  Bee  had  consented  to 
accompany  her,  so  Rossie  was  alone,  and  in  a  measure 
defenseless,  on  the  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Markham  an- 
nounced that  the  hack  which  ran  to  and  from  the  depot 
had  turned  into  the  avenue  and  was  coming  to  the  house, 
and  that  it  contained  two  ladies  and  at  least  three 
trunks,  if  not  four. 

" Ladies  and  trunks  coming  here?"  Rossie  ex- 
claimed, starting  up  in  bed  and  trying  to  listen  to  the 
voices,  which  were  soon  heard  speaking  together  at  the 
side  door,  where  the  hack  had  stopped. 

But  she  could  distinguish  nothing,  and  Mrs.  Markham 
went  to  ascertain  who  the  strangers  were.  Half-way 
down  the  stairs  she  met  old  Aunt  Axie,  who  held  in  her 
hand  a  black-bordered  card  on  which  was  engraved  the 
name,  "  MRS.  J.  E.  FORREST." 

"  The  young  lady  done  gin  me  this  to  fotch  to  Miss 
Hastings,"  Axie  said,  as  she  handed  the  card  to  Mrs. 
Markham,  who  twice  repeated  the  name  "  MRS.  J.  E. 
FORREST." 


MBS.   J.    E.    FORREST.  233 

"  Who  can  she  be  ?  Had  the  judge  any  near  rela- 
tives ?"  she  asked  Axie,  who  replied  : 

"  Not's  I  knows  on.  I  never  hearn  tell  of  any  J.  E. 
Forrests,  but  Mars'r  Everard." 

"  Where  is  the  lady  ?"  was  Mrs.  Markham's  next 
question,  and  Axie  replied  : 

"In  the 'ception  room,  kind  of  shivrin'  and  shakin' 
as  if  she  war  cold.  I  reckon  she's  come  to  stay  a  spell, 
case  the  four  big  trunks  is  all  in  a  pile  in  de  side  entry, 
and  she  acts  as  ef  she  think  she  belong  here,  for  she  ask 
sharp  like,  l  Ain't  thar  no  fire  you  can  take  me  to  ?  I'm 
chilled  through.' 

"  'Thar's  a  fire  in  Miss  Rossie's  room,'  I  said,  '  but 
she's  sick.' 

"'Miss  who?'  she  said,  sharper  still.  'Is  it  Miss 
Hastings  you  mean  ?  Take  her  my  card  and  say  I'd 
like  to  see  her  if  possible,'  and  that's  every  blessed  thing 
I  know  'bout  'em,  only  the  old  one  looks  queer  and  scart 
like,  and  nothin'  in  the  house  for  dinner  but  a  bit  of 
bacon,"  and  having  told  all  she  knew  of  the  visitors, 
Axie  went  on  her  way  to  report  the  same  to  Rosamond, 
and  confer  with  her  about  the  dinner  and  the  rooms  the 
guests  were  to  occupy,  while  Mrs.  Markham  went  down 
to  the  reception-room  to  meet  MRS.  J.  E.  FORREST. 

Josephine  had  greatly  surprised  her  sister  by  walking 
in  upon  her  unannounced  one  morning  a  few  days  pre- 
viously, and  had  still  further  astonished  her  by  saying 
that  Judge  Forrest  was  dead,  and  that  she  had  come 
home  in  order  to  go  at  once  to  Rothsay  and  her  husband. 
She  laid  great  stress  on  that  word,  and  gave  Agnes  to 
understand  that  he  had  written  to  her  of  his  father's 
death,  and  that  it  was  at  his  request  she  had  crossed  the 
sea  to  join  him. 

"  But  won't  he  come  here  for  you  ?  Seems  to  me 
that  would  have  a  better  look,"  Agnes  said,  and  her  sister 
replied: 

"  He  is  quite  too  busy  to  waste  his  time  that  way, 
for  we  can  go  alone;  he  knows  I  am  accustomed  to  trav- 
eling. We  will  start  at  once,  I  am  so  anxious  to  be  there. 
We  can  shut  up  the  house  for  the  present,  until  matters 
are  adjusted,  when  you  or  I  can  come  back  and  see  to 
the  things." 

Could  Agnes  have  had  her  choice  she  would   have 


234  MRS.   J.    E.   FORREST. 

preferred  remaining  where  she  was,  for  she  dreaded 
change  of  any  kind.  But  go  she  must,  for  her  presence 
would  add  weight  and  respectability  to  Josephine,  who 
was  very  kind  to  her,  and  made  the  leaving  Holburton  as 
easy  as  possible.  To  a  few  of  her  old  friends  Josephine 
told  the  secret  of  her  marriage,  showing  her  certificate, 
a  id  saying,  now  her  father-in-law  was  dead  there  was 
nothing  in  the  way  of  publishing  the  marriage  to  the 
world,  and  that  she  was  going  to  her  husband. 

Of  course  all  Holburton  was  excited,  some  believing 
the  story,  others  discrediting  it,  but  all  remembering  the 
play  and  the  mock  marriage  which  had  seemed  so  solemn 
and  real.  But  Josephine  was  not  popular,  and  few  if 
any  regrets  were  sent  after  her  when  she  started  for 
the  Forrest  House,  which  she  reached  on  the  chill  No- 
vember day,  when  everything  was  looking  its  very  worst. 

Even  the  grounds  had  a  bare,  gray  look,  but  they 
were  very  spacious  and  large,  and  Josephine  felt  a  throb 
of  pride  as  she  rode  up  the  avenue,  looking  eagerly  out 
at  the  great,  square,  old-fashioned  building,  which, 
though  massive,  and  stately,  and  pretentious,  was  not 
.  quite  what  she  had  expected  to  find.  There  was  about 
it  a  shut-up,  deserted  air,  which  made  her  ask  the  hack- 
man  if  there  was  any  one  at  home,  or  why  the  blinds 
were  all  closed  except  in  the  wing. 

The  hackman  was  a  negro  who  had  once  been  in 
Judge  Forrest's  employ,  and  he  replied  : 

"  Miss  Rossie's  dar  whar  you  see  de  shutters  Qpen, 
but  de  rest  she  keep  closed  sense  old  marster  died." 

There  was  something  like  a  flash  of  indignation  in 
Josephine's  eyes  as  she  thought  how  soon  she  would 
change  the  administration  of  the  household,  and  make 
Miss  Rossie  know  her  place. 

They  had  reached  the  side  entrance  by  this  time,  and 
Josephine  waited  in  her  seat  an  instant  in  the  hope  that 
her  truant  lord  might  come  himself  to  see  who  his  visitors 
were.  In  that  case  she  meant  to  be  forgiving,  and  put 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  kiss  him,  and  whisper  in 
his  ear  :  "I  know  everything,  but  I  come  in  peace,  not 
in  war.  Let  us  be  friends,  and  do  you  leave  the  expla- 
nation to  me." 

She  had  decided  upon  this  plan  since  leaving  Holbur- 
ton, for  the  nearer  she  drew  to  Rothsay  the  more  she 


MBS.   J.   E.    FORREST.  235 

began  to  dread  and  fear  the  man  who  she  knew  had  out- 
lived all  love  and  respect  for  her.  But  only  Aunt  Axle's 
broad,  black  face  looked  out  into  the  rain,  and  beamed  a 
smile  on  Luke,  the  driver,  who  was  a  distant  relative. 

Springing  lightly  from  the  carriage  Josey  ran  up  the 
steps  into  the  hall,  where  she  stood  while  Agnes  joined 
her,  and  Luke  deposited  the  heavy  trunks  and  claimed 
his  customary  fee,  and  a  little  more  on  the  plea  of  "  so 
many  big  boxes  to  tote." 

But  Josephine  refused  him  sharply,  and  then  followed 
Aunt  Axie  into  the  cold  reception-room,  where  no  fire 
had  been  made  that  day,  for  Rossie  had  never  abandoned 
her  determination  to  use  as  little  as  possible  of  the  For- 
rest money,  and  nothing  superfluous  was  expended  either 
in  fuel,  or  eatables,  or  dress.  So  far  as  her  own  income, 
— a  matter  of  one  hundred  and  forty  dollars  or  there- 
abouts,— was  concerned,  she  was  very  generous  and  free  ; 
but  when  it  came  to  Everard's  money,  as  she  called  it, 
her  economies  were  almost  painful  at  times,  and  wrung 
many  a  remonstrance  from  old  Axie,  the  cook. 

With  a  shiver  and  a  quick,  curious  glance  around  the 
cheerless  room,  Josephine  turned  to  Aunt  Axie  and 
said  : 

"Is  Mr.  Forrest  at  home, — Mr.  Everard  Forrest  ?" 

"  No,  miss.  He  done  went  away  quite  a  spell  ago, 
but  Miss  Rossie's  'spectin'  him  every  day.  He  don't  live 
here,  though,  when  he's  home  ;  he  stay  mostly  in  de 
town." 

Josephine  did  not  understand  her,  and  continued  : 

"  He  will  come  here,  I  suppose,  as  soon  as  he  returns  ?" 

"  Yes,  miss,  he's  sure  to  do  dat,"  and  Axie  nodded 
knowingly. 

Of  course,  she  had  no  suspicion  who  this  lady  was, 
walking  about  the  room  and  examining  the  furniture  with 
a  critical  and  not  favorable  eye,  and  asking,  at  last,  if 
there  was  no  fire  where  she  could  warm  herself  after  her 
cold  ride  ? 

On  being  told  there  was  a  fire  in  Miss  Rossie's  room, 
she  took  from  her  purse  one  of  the  cards  she  had  had  en- 
graved in  Paris,  and  bidding  Axie  take  it  to  Miss  Hast- 
ings, sat  down  to  await  the  result.  To  Agnes  she  said, 
in  something  of  her  old,  dictatorial  tone  : 

"  Pray,  don't  look  so  nervous  and  frightened,  as  if 


236  MBS.    J.    E.    FORREST. 

we  were  a  pair  of  burglars.  It  is  ray  husband's  house, 
and  I  have  a  right  here." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  faltered  Agnes  ;  "  but  it  looks  as  if 
they  did  not  expect  you, — as  if  he  did  not  know  you 
were  coming,  or  he  would  have  been  home,  and  it's  all 
so  dreary  ;  I  wish  I  was  back  in  Holburton,"  and  poor, 
homesick  Agnes  began  to  cry  softly. 

But  Josephine  bade  her  keep  quiet. 

"  You  let  me  do  the  talking,"  she  said.  "  You  need 
not  speak,  or  if  you  have  to  you  must  assent  to  what  you 
hear  me  say,  even  if  it  is  not  all  quite  true." 

Josephine  had  expected  Rosamond  herself,  and  had 
taken  a  very  pretty  attitude,  and  even  laid  off  her  hat  so 
as  to  show  her  golden  hair,  which,  in  the  dampness,  was 
one  mass  of  waves  and  curls  and  little  rings  about  her 
forehead.  She  meant  to  astonish  and  dazzle  the  girl 
whom  she  suspected  as  her  rival,  and  who  she  imagined 
to  be  plain  and  unprepossessing,  and  when  she  heard  a 
step  outside  she  drew  herself  up  a  little,  but  had  no  in- 
tention of  rising.  She  should  assert  her  superiority  at 
once,  and  sit  while  she  received  Miss  Hastings  rather 
than  be  received  by  her.  How  then  was  she  disappointed 
and  chagrined  when,  instead  of  Rossie,  there  appeared 
on  the  threshold  a  middle-aged  woman,  who  showed  that 
she  was  every  whit  a  lady,  and  whose  manner,  as  she 
bowed  to  the  blonde  beauty,  brought  her  to  her  feet  im- 
mediately. 

"Mrs.  Forrest?"  Mrs.  Markham  said,  interrogatively, 
consulting  the  card  she  held,  and  then  glancing  at  Jose- 
phine, who  answered  her: 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest.  My  husband,  it  seems,  is 
not  here  to  receive  me  and  explain  matters,  for  which  I 
am  very  sorry." 

Even  then  Mrs.  Markham  had  no  suspicion  of  the 
truth.  The  husband  referred  to  was,  of  course,  some 
distant  relative,  who  was  to  have  been  there  in  advance 
of  his  wife,  and  she  replied: 

"No,  there  has  been  no  gentleman  here,  but  that 
does  not  matter,  except  as  it  may  be  awkward  for  you. 
Miss  Hastings  will  make  you  very  welcome,  though  she 
is  sick  to-day  and  in  bed.  Your  husband  is  a  relative  of 
Mr.  Everard  Forrest,  I  nresume." 

"A  relative  !     My  husband  is  Mr.  Everard  Forrest," 


MBS.    J.    E.    FORREST.  237 

Josephine  said.  "  We  were  married  four  years  ago  last 
summer,  and  at  his  request,  I  have  kept  it  a  secret  ever 
since.  But  my  sister,"  and  she  nodded  toward  Agnes, 
"  saw  me  married,  and  I  have  my  marriage  certificate  in 
my  bag.  Agnes,  give  me  my  satchel,  please,"  and  she 
turned  again  to  Agnes,  who  knew  now  that  they  were 
there  unexpected  and  unknown,  and  her  face  was  very 
white  as  she  brought  the  satchel  for  Josephine  to  open. 

Mrs.  Markham  was  confounded  and  incredulous,  and 
she  showed  it  in  her  face  as  she  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
stared  wonderingly  at  her  visitor,  who,  from  a  little  box 
fastened  with  lock  and  key,  abstracted  a  paper  which 
she  handed  her  to  read. 

"I  know  just  how  I  must  seem  to  you,"  Josephine 
said.  "You  think  me  an  adventuress,  an  impostor,  but 
I  am  neither.  I  am  Everard  Forrest's  lawful  wife,  as 
this  certificate  will  show  you." 

Mrs.  Markham  did  not  reply,  for  she  was  reading 
that,  at  Holburton,  New  York,  on  the  evening  of  the 
17th  of  July,  18 — :,  Mr.  James  E.  Forrest,  of  Rothsay, 
Ohio,  was  united  in  matrimony  to  Miss  Josephine 
Fleming,  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Matthewson.  There  could  be 
no  mistake  apparently,  unless  this  paper  was  a  forgery 
and  the  woman  a  lunatic,  and  still  Mrs.  Markham  could 
not  believe  it.  She  had  a  great  respect  and  liking  for 
Everard,  and  held  him  as  a  model  young  man,  who  would 
never  stoop  to  deception  like  this,  and  then, — there  was 
Rossie  !  and  the  kind-hearted  woman  felt  a  pang  of  pity 
and  a  throb  of  indignation  as  she  thought  how  Rossie  had 
been  wronged  and  duped  if  this  thing  were  true,  and  this 
woman  confronting  her  so  calmly  and  unflinchingly 
were  really  Everard's  wife. 

"I  cannot  believe  it.  I  will  not  believe  it,"  she 
thought  ;  and  as  composedly  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to 
do,  she  said  : 

"  This  is  a  strange  story  you  tell  me,  and  if  it  is  true 
it  bears  very  heavily  against  Mr.  Forrest,  who  has  never 
been  suspected  of  being  a  married  man." 

"  I  knew  it ;  I  guessed  as  much.  Oh,  Josey,  why  did 
you  come  before  he  sent  for  you  ?  Let's  go  away.  You 
are  not  wanted  here  !"  Agnes  exclaimed,  as  she  came 
swiftly  to  her  sister's  side  and  laid  her  hand  on  her 
arm. 


238  MRS.   J.   E.   FORREST. 

But  Josephine  shook  it  off  fiercely,  and  in  a  tone  she 
knew  so  well  how  to  assume,  said  commandingly,  as  if 
speaking  to  a  child: 

"  Mind  your  business,  Agnes,  and  let  me  attend  to 
my  own  affairs.  I  have  kept  quiet  long  enough;  four 
years  of  neglect  would  try  the  patience  of  any  woman, 
and  if  he  does  not  choose  to  recognize  me  as  his  wife  I 
shall  compel  him  to  do  so.  You  saw  me  married;  you 
know  I  am  telling  the  truth.  Speak,  Agnes,  did  you  not 
see  me  married  to  Everard  Forrest  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  did,  may  God  forgive  me,"  was  Agnes'  meek 
reply,  but  still  Mrs.  Markham  could  not  believe  her,  and 
was  silent  while  Josephine  went  on: 

"  I  do  not  wish  for  any  scene,  or  talk,  or  excitement. 
I  am  Everard  Forrest's  wife,  and  I  wish  only  to  be  known 
as  such.  I  hoped  to  find  him  here,  for  then  it  would  be 
his  duty  to  explain,  not  mine.  Do  I  understand  he  is 
not  in'  town,  or  not  at  home?  Possibly  he  is  in  his  office, 
in  which  case  I  will  seek  him  there." 

"  He  is  not  in  town,"  Mrs.  Markham  said  ;  "  he  went 
to  Indiana  on  business  more  than  a  week  ago,  and  has 
not  yet  returned.  He  does  not  live  here  when  he  is  at 
home  ;  he  boards  in  the  village.  Miss  Hastings  lives 
here  ;  this  is  her  house  ;  perhaps  you  do  not  know  that 
Judge  Forrest  died,  and " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  Josephine  interrupted  her,  beginning  to 
get  irritated  and  lose  her  self-command  as  she  saw  that 
she  was  not  believed,  "  I  do  know  Judge  Forrest  is  dead, 
and  has  been  for  two  years  or  more;  but  I  learned  it  ac- 
cidentally, and  as  he  was  the  only  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
my  recognition  as  Everard's  wife,  I  came  at  once,  as  I 
had  a  right,  to  my  husband's  house." 

"  But  this  is  not  his  house,"  Mrs.  Markham  replied. 
"  It  belongs  to  Miss  Hastings.  Everything  belongs  to 
her.  Judge  Forrest  left  it  to  her  by  will.  Didn't  you 
know  that?" 

"  No,  I  did  not,"  Josephine  answered,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment she  turned  deathly  white  as  she  saw  the  ground 
slipping  from  under  her  feet.  "Left  everything  to  Miss 
Hastings  and  disinherited  his  son  !  Why  was  that  ?"  she 
asked. 

"I  don't  know  why  he  did  it," Mrs. Markham  replied, 
"  I  know  only  that  he'did,  and  it  is  strange  Mr.  Forrest 


MRS.   J.   K   FORREST.  239 

did  not  write  that  to  you,  as  you  must,  of  course,  have 
been  in  correspondence  with  him." 

She  spoke  sarcastically,  and  Josephine  knew  she  was 
looked  upon  with  distrust,  notwithstanding  the  certifi- 
cate, which  she  had  thought  would  silence  all  doubt;  and 
that,  added  to  what  she  had  heard  of  the  disposition  of 
the  Forrest  property,  provoked  her  to  wrath,  and  her 
eyes,  usually  so  dreamy  and  blue,  emitted  sparks  of  an- 
ger, and  seemed  to  turn  a  kind  of  whitish  gray  as  she 
burst  out  : 

"  My  correspondence  with  my  husband  has  not  been 
very  frequent  or  full.  I  told  you  I  did  not  hear  from 
him  of  his  father's  death  ;  he  never  hinted  at  such  a 
thing,  and  how  was  I  to  know  that  he  was  disinherited  ? 
If  I  had  it  might  have  made  a  difference,  and  I  should 
have  thought  twice  before  crossing  the  sea  and  giving 
up  a  life  I  enjoyed,  for  the  sake  of  coming  here  to  find 
myself  suspected  as  an  impostor,  which,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, is  natural  perhaps,  and  to  find  also  that  my 
husband  is  a  pauper,  and  the  home  I  had  confidently 
expected  would  one  day  be  mine  given  to  a  stranger." 

Josephine  was  almost  crying  when  she  finished  this 
imprudent  speech,  in  which  she  betrayed  that  all  she 
really  cared  for  was  the  home  and  the  money  which  she 
had  expected  to  find.  Mrs.  Markham  saw  this,  and  it 
did  not  tend  to  increase  her  respect  for  the  lady,  though 
she  did  pity  her,  if,  as  she  affirmed,  she  were  really 
Everard's  wife,  for  with  her  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture, she  guessed  that  if  there  really  had  been  a  marriage 
it  was  a  hasty  thing,  repented  of  almost  as  soon  as  done, 
by  Everard  at  least.  But  she  did  not  know  what  to  say 
until  Josephine,  who  had  recovered  herself,  continued  : 
"  I  should  like  to  see  Miss  Hastings,  if  possible,  and 
apologize  for  my  intrusion  into  her  house,  and  then  I 
will  go  to  the  hotel  and  await  my  husband's  return  ;" 
then  she  answered  quickly  ;  "  Miss  Hastings,  I  am  sure, 
will  say  you  are  welcome  to  remain  here  as  long  as  you 
like,  but  I  do  not  think  she  will  see  you  to-day,  and  if 
you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  go  to  her  now,  as  she  must  bo 
anxious  to  know  who  her  visitors  are." 

With  this  Mrs.  Markham  arose,  and  bowing  to 
Josephine  left  the  room,  and  went  directly  to  Rosa- 
mond. 


240  HOW    ROSS1E    BORE    THE    NEWS. 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

HOW   EOSSIE  BORE  THE  NEWS. 


HE  did  not  bear  it  well  at  all,  although  she  was 
in  some  degree  prepared  for  it  by  the  card 
which  Axie  brought  her. 

"Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest,— Mrs.  J.  E.  For- 
rest," she  repeated  as  she  examined  the  card, 
while  something  undefinable,  like  the  shadow  of  coming 
evil,  began  to  stir  her  heart.  "  Who  can  she  be,  and 
where  did  she  come  from  ?  You  say  she  has  a  maid  ?" 

"Yes,  or  suffin'  like  dat, — a  quar-lookin'  woman,  who 
has  a  lame  hand.  I  noticed  the  way  she  slung  the  lady's 
satchel  over  it,  and  it  hung  slimpsey  like." 

"  How  does  the  lady  look,  and  what  did  she  say  ? 
Tell  me  everything,"  Rosamond  said;  and  Axie,  who  be- 
gan to  have  a  suspicion  that  the  lady  was  not  altogether 
welcome,  replied: 

"  She  done  squabble  fust  thing  wid  the  driver,  who 
ax  more  for  fetchin'  and  liftin'  her  four  big  trunks,  an' 
she  hold  up  her  gown  and  walk  as  ef  the  groun'  wasn't 
good  enough  for  her,  an'  she  looked  round  de  room  kind 
o'  sniffin'  like,  wid  her  nose  turned  up  a  bit  as  she  axed 
me  was  thar  no  fire.  But  my,  she  be  very  hansom'  and 
no  mistake.  All  in  black,  with  such  nice  skin  and  pretty 
eyes,  wid  dem  great  long  lashes,  like  Miss  Beatrice." 

Rossie  could  deny  herself  everything,  but  she  was 
never  indifferent  to  the  comfort  of  others,  and  though 
she  could  not  help  feeling  that  this  woman,  who  called 
herself  Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest,  would  in  some  way  work  her 
harm,  she  could  understand  just  how  cold  and  cheerless 
the  house  must  seem  to  her  on  that  rainy  day;  and  she 
ordered  Axie  to  build  fires  in  both  the  rooms  below,  as 
well  as  in  the  chamber  where  Everard  occasionally  spent 
a  night,  and  which  was  the  only  guest-room  she  kept 
in  order.  There  was  also  a  consultation  on  the  impor- 
tant subject  of  dinner,  and  then  Rossie  was  left  alone 
for  a  few  moments  to  puzzle  her  brain  as  to  who  this 
woman  could  be,  and  wonder  why  her  heart  should  feel 


HOW    HOSSIE    BORE    THE    NEWS.  241 

BO  like  lead,  and  her  pulse  beat  so  rapidly.  She  did  not 
have  long  to  wait  for  a  solution  of  the  mystery  before 
Mrs.  Markham  came  in,  showing  at  once  that  she  was 
agitated  and  distressed. 

"  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Markham  ?  Is  she  any  relation  to 
Mr.  Everard  ?"  Rossie  asked  eagerly. 

It  would  be  wrong  to  keep  her  in  suspense  a  moment 
longer  than  was  necessary,  and  going  up  to  her,  Mrs. 
Markham  replied: 

"She  says  she  is  Everard's  wife  ;  and  I  have  seen  the 
certificate.  They  were  married  more  than  four  years 
ago,  before  his  mother  died,  and  she, — oh,  Rossie,  my 
child,  my  child,  don't  give  way  like  that  ;  it  may — it 
must  be  false,"  she  added,  in  alarm,  as  she  saw  the 
death-like  pallor  which  spread  over  Rossie's  face,  and 
the  look  of  bitter  pain  and  horror  which  leaped  into  her 
eyes,  while  the  quivering  lips  whispered  : 

"  Everard's  wife  ?     No,  no,  110  !" 

"  Don't,  Rossie, — don't  !"  Mrs.  Markham  said  again, 
as  she  passed  her  arm  around  the  girl,  whose  head  droop- 
ed upon  her  shoulder,  in  a  hopeless  kind  of  way,  ami 
who  said  :  "  You  saw  the  certificate  ?  What  was  the 
name  ?  Was  it " 

"  Fleming, — Josephine  Fleming,  of  Holburton,"  Mrs. 
Markham  replied,  and  with  a  shiver  Rossie  drew  herself 
away  from  Mrs.  Markham's  arms,  and  turning  her  face 
to  the  wall,  said  :  "  Yes,  I  know.  I  understand  it  all. 
She  is  his  wife.  She  is  Joe  Fleming." 

After  that  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved,  and  when 
Mrs.  Markham,  alarmed  at  her  silence,  bent  down  to 
look  at  her,  she  found  that  she  had  fainted.  The 
shock  had  proved  too  great  for  Rossie,  whose  mind,  at 
the  mention  of  Josephine  Fleming,  had  with  lightning 
rapidity  gathered  all  the  tangled  threads  of  the  past, 
and  comprehended  what  had  been  so  mysterious  at 
times  in  Everard's  behavior.  He  was  married, — hastily, 
no  doubt,  but  still  married  ;  and  Joe  Fleming  was  his 
wife,  and  he  had  never  told  her,  but  suffered  her  to 
believe  that  he  loved  her,  just  as  she  knew  now  that 
she  loved  him.  It  was  a  bitter  humiliation,  and  for 
an  instant  there  gathered  round  her  so  thick  a  horror 
and  blackness  that  she  fancied  herself  dying  ;  but  it 
was  only  a  faint,  and  she  lay  so  white  and  rigid  that 

11 


242  HOW    BOSSIE    BOHE    TEE    NEWS. 

Mrs.  Markham  summoned  Aunt  Axie  from  the  dining- 
room,  where  she  was  making  preparations  for  kindling 
a  fire  in  the  grate. 

"Be  quiet,"  Mrs.  Markham  said  to  her  as  she  came 
up  the  stairs.  "Miss  Rossie  has  fainted,  but  don't  let 
those  people  know  it  ;  and  bring  me  some  hot  water 
for  her  feet,  quick." 

Axie  obeyed,  wondering  to  herself  why  her  young 
mistress  should  faint,  when  she  never  knew  her  to  do 
such  a  thing  before,  and  with  her  ready  wit  connect- 
ing it  in  some  way  with  the  strangers  whom  Mrs. 
Markham  had  designated  as  "  those  people,"  and  whom 
the  old  negress  directly  set  down  as  "  no  'count  folks." 

It  was  some  time  before  Rossie  came  back  to  con- 
sciousness, and  when  she  did  her  first  words  were  : 

"Where  is  she?  Where  is  Everard's  wife  ?  Don't 
let  her  come  in  here  ;  I  could  not  bear  it  now." 

"  Everard's  wife !  Mars'r  Everard's  wife  !"  Axie 
repeated,  tossing  her  turbaned  head  and  rolling  up 
her  eyes  in  astonishment.  "  In  de  deah  Lord's  name, 
•what  do  de  chile  mean  ?  Dat  ain't  Mars'r  Everard's 
wife  ?"  and  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Markham,  who,  now 
that  Rossie  had  betrayed  what  she  would  have  kept 
until  Everard  came  to  confirm  or  deny  the  tale,  replied  : 

"She  says  she  is  ;  but  we  must  wait  until  Mr.  Forrest 
comes  before  we  admit  it.  So  don't  go  talking  outside." 

"Catch  me  talkin',"  was  Axie's  rejoinder.  "It's  a 
lie.  Mars'r  Everard  hain't  got  no  wife.  I  should  of 
knowed  it  if  he  had.  Don't  you  b'lieve  it,  honey,"  and 
she  laid  her  hard  black  hand  caressingly  on  the  head  of 
the  girl  whom  she  had  long  since  singled  out  as  Everard's 
future  wife,  watching  shrewdly  the  growing  intimacy 
between  the  two  young  people,  and  knowing  better  than 
they  did  just  when  the  so-called  brother  merged  into  the 
lover,  and  she  would  not  for  a  moment  believe  in  another 
v,  wife,  and  a  secret  one  at  that.  "No,  honey,"  she  con- 
tinued, "don't  you  b'lieve  it.  Mars'r  Everard  hain't  got 
no  wife,  and  never  will  have,  but  you." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Axie,"  Rossie  said,  "this  woman  tells 
the  truth.  She  is  his  wife,  and  Everard  ought  to  come 
home.  We  must  telegraph  at  once.  He  is  in  Dighton 
still." 

Mrs.  Markham  accordingly  wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper  : 


MRS.     FORREST "S    POLICY. 


"To  J.  E.  FORREST,  Dighton  : — Come  immediately. 

"S.  MARKHAM." 

And  Axie's  granddaughter  Lois,  who  lived  in  the 
house,  was  commissioned  to  take  it  to  the  office.  A  fire 
had  been  kindled  by  this  time  in  the  chamber  Josephine 
was  to  occupy,  and  she  was  there  with  Agnes,  and  had 
rung  for  warm  water,  which  Lois  took  up  to  her  before 

foing  on  her  errand.  As  the  child  was  leaving  the  room 
osephine  said  to  her:  "Is  there  a  paper  published  in 
town  ?" 

"  Yes'ra,  the  Rothsay  Star"  was  the  reply. 

"  When  does  it  come  out  ?"  was  the  next  question, 
and  Lois  said  : 

"  Saturday, — to-morrow." 

"  Very  well.  I  wish  you  to  take  a  notice  to  the  office 
of  the  Star  for  me  to-night,  and  I  will  give  you  a 
quarter." 

Twenty-five  cents  seemed  a  fortune  to  the  little  negro 
girl,  who  was  greatly  impressed  with  the  beauty  of  the 
lady,  and  who  replied: 

"  Yes,  miss,  I'll  do  'em.  I's  gwine  to  the  village 
directly  with  a  telegraph  to  Mars'r  Everard,  and  I'll  take 
yourn  same  time." 

So,  when,  a  little  later,  she  started  for  the  telegraph 
office,  she  bore  with  her  to  the  Rothsay  Star  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"MARRIED.— In  Holburton,  N.  Y.,  July  17,  18—,  by 
the  Rev.  John  Matthewson,  JAMES  EVERARD  FORREST,  of 
Rothsay,  Ohio,  and  Miss  JOSEPHINE  FLEMING,  of  Hoi- 
burton." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
MRS.  FORREST'S  POLICY. 

HEN  Aunt  Axie  was  called  so  suddenly  by 
Mrs.  Markhara,  she  was  kindling  the  fire  in 
the  dining-room,  which  adjoined  the  room 
where  Josephine  sat  shivering  with  cold,  and 
feeling  like  anything  but  a  happy  wife  just 
come  to  her  husband's  ancestral  halls.  Tired  with  her 


244  MBS.     FORREST'S    POLICY. 

rapid  journey,  and  disappointed  and  shocked  by  what 
she  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Markham  of  the  judge's  will, 
Josey  was  nearer  giving  way  to  a  hearty  cry  than  she 
had  been  before  in  a  long  time.  It  bad  been  far  better 
to  have  staid  where  she  was,  and  enjoyed  the  life  she 
liked,  than  to  have  come  here  and  subject  herself  to  sus- 
picion and  slights  from  the  people  who  did  not  know  her. 
And  then  she  was  so  cold,  and  chilly,  and  uncomfortable 
generally. 

But  when  the  fire  was  made  she  felt  better,  and 
drawing  an  easy  chair  close  to  it  assumed  her  usual  in- 
dolent and  lounging  attitude.  Twice  Axie,  who  seemed 
to  be  excited,  passed  the  door,  once  when  she  was  taking 
the  hot  water  to  Rossie's  room,  and  again,  later,  after 
she  had  received  an  impression  of  the  strangers  against 
whom  she  had  mentally  declared  war.  This  time  Jose- 
phine called  her.  She  had  heard  an  unusual  stir  above, 
and  from  Mrs.  Markham's  protracted  absence,  and  Axie's 
evident  haste,  suspected  that  the  bombshell  she  had 
thrown  had  taken  effect,  especially  if,  as  she  believed, 
Rosamond  was  particularly  interested  in  Everard. 

'•  Woman,"  she  said,  as  the  black  face  glanced  in, 
"  what  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Axie,  ma'am,"  was  the  crisp  reply,  and  Josephine 
continued  :  "  Oh,  yes,  I  have  heard  my  husband  speak  of 
you.  I  am  very  sorry  he  is  not  here  to  set  matters 
right.  What  is  the  matter  up-stairs  ?  Is  any  one  sud- 
denly ill  ?" 

Axie  was  bristling  with  resentment  toward  this 
woman,  who  called  Everard  her  husband  so  coolly,  and 
in  whom  she  would  not  believe  till  she  had  her  master's 
word  of  confirmation.  Still,  she  must  not  be  insolent, 
that  was  against  her  creed  ;  but  she  answered  with  great 
dignity,  "  I  tole  you  Miss  Hastin's  was  sick  when  you 
fust  come.  Her  throat  be  very  sore,  an'  her  head  mighty 
bad  ;  so,  you'll  sense  me,  iww,"  and  with  a  kind  of  sup- 
pressed snort  Axie  departed,  jingling  her  keys  and  toss- 
ing her  blue-turbaned  head  high  in  the  air. 

Josephine  knew  perfectly  well  how  she  was  regarded 
in  the  house,  and,  irritated  and  chagrined,  decided  at 
once  upon  her  policy.  She  should  be  very  amiable  and 
sweet,  of  course,  but  firm  in  asserting  her  rights.  She 
was  EveranJ's  wife,  and  she  could  prove  it,  and  it  was 


MRS.    FORREST'S    POLICY.  245 

natural  that  she  should  come  to  what  she  supposed  was 
his  home  and  hers.  It  was  not  her  fault  that  she  had 
made  the  mistake.  The  wrong  was  on  bis  side,  and  she 
should  stay  there  until  he  came,  unless  they  turned  her 
from  the  door,  which  she  hardly  thought  they  would  do. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Markham  appeared,  apologizing  for 
her  long  absence,  and  saying  that  though  Miss  Hastings 
was,  of  course,  surprised  at  what  she  had  heard,  she  did 
not  discredit  it,  and  would  telegraph  at  once  for  Mr. 
Forrest. 

"Meantime,"  she  continued,  "  she  wishes  you  to  re- 
main here  till  he  comes,  and  has  given  orders  to  have 
you  made  comfortable.  I  believe  there  is  a  fire  in  your 
room,  if  you  wish  to  go  to  it  before  dinner.  Miss  Hast- 
ings is  too  ill  to  see  you  herself." 

"  Thanks  ;  she  is  very  kind.  I  would  like  to  go  to 
my  room,  and  to  have  one  of  my  trunks  sent  up.  Agnes 
will  show  you  which  one, — the  small  leather  box,"  Jose- 
phine said,  with  a  dignified  bow,  as  she  rose  from  her 
chair. 

Calling  Aunt  Axie,  Mrs.  Markham  bade  her  conduct 
the  lady  to  her  room,  where  a  bright  wood  fire  was  blaz- 
ing, and  which  looked  very  cheerful  and  pleasant  ;  for, 
as  it  was  Everard's  room,  where  he  always  slept  when  he 
spent  a  night  at  the  Forrest  House,  Rosamond  had  taken 
great  pains  to  keep  it  nice,  and  had  transferred  to  it  sev- 
eral articles  of  furniture  from  the  other  rooms.  Here 
Josey's  spirits  began  to  rise,  and  it  was  in  quite  a  com- 
fortable state  of  mind  that  she  dressed  herself  for  din- 
ner, in  a  gown  of  soft  cashmere,  with  just  a  little  white 
at  her  throat  and  wrists.  As  it  was  only  her  mother  for 
whom  she  mourned,  she  had  decided  that  she  might  wear 
a  jet  necklace,  which  heightened  the  effect  of  her  dress, 
if  indeed  it  needed  anything  more  to  improve  it  than 
the  beautiful  face  and  wealth  of  golden  hair.  Even 
Mrs.  Markham  drew  an  involuntary  breath  as  this  vision 
of  loveliness  and  grace  came  into  the  room,  apologizing 
for  being  tardy,  and  inquiring  so  sweetly  for  Miss  Hast- 
ings, who,  she  hoped,  was  no  worse. 

Her  policy  was  to  be  a  sweet  as  well  as  a  firm  one, 
and  before  dinner  was  over  even  Mrs.  Markham  began 
to  waver  a  little  in  her  first  opinion,  and  wonder  why 
Everard  should  have  kept  secret  his  marriage  with  this 


246  MRS.     FORREST'S    POLICY. 

brilliant,  fascinating  woman,  who  seemed  so  much  of  a 
lady,  and  who  evidently  was  as  well  born  as  himself,  at 
least  on  the  maternal  side,  for  Josey  took  care  to  say 
that  her  mother  knew  Mrs.  Forrest  when  she  was  a  girl, 
and  was  present  at  her  wedding  in  Boston,  but  that,  ow- 
ing to  adverse  circumstances,  they  saw  nothing  of  each 
other  after  the  marriage. 

"  Papa  was  unfortunate  and  died,  and  we  moved  into 
the  country,  where,  for  a  time,  marnma  had  a  hard  strug- 
gle to  keep  up,  and  at  last  took  a  few  boarders  in  order 
to  live,"  she  said  ;  and  her  blue  eyes  were  very  tender 
and  pathetic  as  she  told  what  in  one  sense  was  the  truth, 
though  a  truth  widely  different  from  the  impression  she 
meant  to  convey. 

Once  Agnes,  whose  face  was  very  white,  gave  her 
such  a  look  of  sorrowful  entreaty  that  Mrs.  Markham 
observed  and  wondered  at  it,  just  as  she  wondered  at 
the  great  difference  between  the  sisters,  and  could  only 
account  for  it  on  the  supposition  that  Agnes'  mother 
was  a  very  different  woman  from  the  second  Mrs. 
Fleming,  who  had  been  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Forrest,  and  a 
guest  at  her  wedding  !  Miss  Belknap  was,  of  course, 
brought  into  the  conversation,  and  Josephine  was  sorry 
to  hear  that  she  was  not  at  home. 

"I  depended  upon  her  to  vouch  for  my  respectability. 
She  knows  me  so  well,"  she  said,  explaining  that  Bea- 
trice had  been  for  some  time  an  inmate  of  her  mother's 
house  in  Holburton,  and  that  she  had  liked  her  so  much, 
and  then,  more  bewildered  than  ever,  Mrs.  Markham 
went  over  half-way  to  the  enemy,  and  longed  for  the 
mystery  to  be  explained. 

The  next  day,  which  was  Saturday,  it  rained  with  a 
steady  pour,  and  Josephine  kept  her  room,  after  having 
expressed  a  wish  to  see  Miss  Hastings,  if  possible  ;  but 
when  this  request  was  made  known  to  Rossie  by  Mrs. 
Markham,  she  exclaimed  : 

"  No,  no, — not  her  ;  not  Joe  Fleming  !  I  could  not 
bear  it  till  Mr.  Everard  cornea." 

She  was  thinking  of  her  hair  and  the  letter,  and  the 
persistence  with  which  Joe  Fleming  had  demanded 
money  from  Everard,  and  it  made  no  difference  with  her 
that  Mrs.  Markham  represented  the  woman  as  pretty, 
and  lady-like,  and  sweet.  She  could  not  see  her,  and  a 


MBS.     FORREST'S    POLICY.  247 

message  to  the  effect  that  she  was  too  weak  and  sick 
to  talk  with  strangers  was  taken  to  Josephine,  who 
hoped  Miss  Hastings  was  not  going  to  be  seriously 
ill,  and  offered  the  services  of  her  sister,  who  had  the 
faculty  of  quieting  the  most  nervous  persons  and  put- 
ting them  to  sleep.  But  Rossie  declined  Agnes  too,  and 
lay  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  scarcely  moving,  and 
never  speaking  unless  she  was  spoken  to.  And  Josephine 
lounged  in  her  own  room,  and  had  her  lunch  brought  up 
by  Axie,  to  whom  she  tried  to  be  gracious.  But  Axie 
was  not  easily  won.  She  did  not  believe  in  Mrs.  J.  E. 
Forrest,  and  looked  upon  her  presence  there  as  an  affront 
to  herself  and  an  insult  to  Rossie,  and  when  about  two 
o'clock  the  Rothsay  Star  was  brought  into  the  house  by 
her  husband,  John,  who  was  in  a  state  of  great  excite- 
ment over  the  marriage  notice,  which  had  been  pointed 
out  to  him,  she  wrung  from  Lois  the  fact  that  she  had 
carried  a  note  to  the  editor,  and  had  been  paid  a  quarter 
for  it  by  the  lady  up-stairs.  She  put  the  paper  away 
where  it  could  not  be  found  if  Rossie  chanced  to  ask  for  it. 

But  she  could  not  keep  it  from  the  world  as  repre- 
sented by  Rothsay,  for  it  was  already  the  theme  of 
every  tongue.  The  editor  had  read  the  note  which 
Josephine  sent  him  before  Lois  left  the  office,  and  had 
questioned  her  as  to  who  sent  her  with  it.  Lois  had 
answered  him  : 

"De  young  lady  what  corned  from  de  train  wid  four 
big  trunks  and  bandbox." 

"And  where  is  she  now  ?"  he  asked,  and  Lois  replied  : 
"  Up  sta'rs  in  Mas'r  Everard's  room." 

This  last  was  proof  conclusive  of  the  validity  of  the 
marriage,  which  the  editor  naturally  concluded  was  a 
hasty  affair  of  Everard's  college  days,  when  he  had  the 
reputation  of  being  rather  wild  and  fast,  and  so  he  pub- 
lished the  notice  and  in  another  column  called  attention 
to  it,  as  the  last  great  excitement. 

Of  course  there  was  much  wondering,  and  surmising, 
and  guessing,  and  in  spite  of  the  rain  the  ladies  who 
lived  near  each  other  got  together  and  talked  it  up,  and 
believed  or  discredited  it  according  to  their  several 
natures.  Mrs.  Dr.  Rider,  a  chubby,  good-natured,  in- 
quisitive woman,  declared  her  intention  of  knowing  the 
facts  before  she  slept.  Her  husband  attended  Rosa- 


248  MRS.     FORREST'S    POLICY. 

mond,  and  sbe  bad  a  sirup  which  was  just  the  medicine 
for  a  sore  throat  and  influenza,  such  as  Rossie  was 
suffering  from,  and  she  would  take  it  to  her,  and  per- 
haps learn  the  truth  of  the  story  of  Everard's  marriage. 

Accordingly,  about  four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  Mrs. 
Dr.  Rider's  little  covered  phaeton  turned  into  the  For- 
rest avenue,  and  was  seen  from  the  window  by  Jose- 
phine, who,  tired  and  ennuyeed,  was  looking  out  into  the 
rain. 

That  the  phaeton  held  a  lady  she  saw,  and  as  the 
lady  could  only  be  coming  there  she  resolved  at  once  to 
put  herself  in  the  way  of  some  possible  communication 
Avith  the  outer  world.  Glancing  at  herself  in  the  mirror 
she  saw  that  she  was  looking  well,  although  a  little  paler 
than  her  wont,  but  this  would  make  her  more  interesting 
in  the  character  she  meant  to  assume,  that  of  an  angelic 
martyr.  As  the  day  was  chilly,  a  soft  white  wrap  of 
some  kind  would  not  be  out  of  place,  and  would  add  to 
the  effect. 

So  she  snatched  up  a  fleecy  shawl  of  Berlin  wool, 
and  throwing  it  around  her  shoulders,  took  with  her  a 
book,  and  hurrying  down  to  the  reception-room,  had 
just  time  to  seat  herself  gracefully  and  becomingly,  when 
the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Dr.  Rider  came  in. 

Aunt  Axie,  who  was  a  little  deaf,  was  in  the  kitchen 
busy  with  her  dinner,  while  Lois  was  in  the  barn,  hunt- 
ing for  eggs,  and  so  no  one  heard  the  bell,  which  Mrs. 
Rider  pulled  twice,  and  then,  presuming  upon  her  long 
acquaintance  with  the  house,  opened  the  door  and  walked 
into  the  reception-room,  where  she  stopped  for  an  in- 
stant, startled  by  the  picture  of  the  pretty  blonde  in 
black,  with  the  white  shawl,  and  the  golden  hair  rippling 
back  from  the  beautiful  face. 

Here  was  a  stroke  of  what  Mrs.  Rider  esteemed  luck. 
She  had  stumbled  at  once  upon  the  very  person  she  had 
come  to  inquire  about,  and  as  she  was  not  one  to  lose  any 
time,  she  shook  the  rain-drops  from  her  waterproof,  and 
drawing  near  to  the  fire,  turned  to  the  lady  in  the  easy- 
chair,  and  said: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  very  unceremonious  en- 
trance. I  rang  twice,  and  then  ventured  to  come  in,  it 
was  raining  so  hard." 

Josephine  admitted  that  it  was  raining  hard,  and  re- 


MRS.     FORREST'S    POLICY.  249 

marked  that  she  expected  to  find  it  warmer  ill  Southern 
Ohio  than  in  Eastern  New  York,  but  she  believed  it  was 
colder,  and  with  a  shiver  she  drew  her  shawl  around 
her  shoulders,  shook  back  her  hair,  and  lifted  her  blue 
eyes  to  Mrs.  Rider,  who  responded: 

"  You  came  from  the  East,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam,  from  Holburton.  That  is,  I  am  from 
there  just  now,  but  it's  only  two  weeks  since  I  returned 
from  Europe,  where  I  have  been  for  a  long  time.'' 

Here  there  was  a  solution  in  part  of  the  mystery. 
This  wife  had  been  in  Europe,  and  that  was  why  the 
secret  had  been  kept  so  long,  and  little  Mrs.  Dr.  Rider 
flushed  with  eager  excitement  and  pleasurable  curiosity 
as  she  said: 

"  From  Europe  !  You  must  be  tired  with  your  long 
journey.  Have  you  ever  been  in  Rothsay  before  ? 
From  your  having  come  from  the  East  I  suppose  you 
must  be  a  relative  of  Mrs.  Forrest,  who  was  born  in 
Boston  ?" 

Josephine  knew  she  did  not  suppose  any  such  thing, 
and  that  in  all  probability  she  had  seen  the  notice  in  the 
Star,  and  had  come  to  spy  out  the  land,  but  it  was  not 
her  policy  to  parade  her  story  unsolicited  ;  so  she  merely 
replied  that  she  was  not  a  relative  of  Mrs.  Forrest's, 
though  her  mamma  and  that  lady  had  been  friends  in 
their  girlhood.  To  have  been  a  friend  of  the  late  Mrs. 
Forrest  stamped  a  person  as  somebody,  and  Mrs.  Rider 
began  at  once  to  espouse  the  cause  of  this  woman,  to 
whom  she  said: 

"  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  seem  forward  in  what 
I  am  about  to  say.  I  am  Mrs.  Rider,  wife  of  the  family 
physician,  and  a  friend  of  Everard,  and  when  I  saw  that 
notice  of  his  marriage  in  the  Star  I  could  hardly  credit 
it,  though  I  know  such  things  have  been  before;  but  four 
years  is  such  a  long  time  to  keep  an  affair  of  that  kind  a 
secret.  May  I  ask  if  it  is  true,  and  if  you  are  the  wife  ?" 

"It  is  true,  and  I  arn  his  wife,  or  I  should  not  be 
here,"  Josey  said,  very  quietly. 

"Yes,  certainly  not,  of  course,"  Mrs.  Rider  replied, 
hardly  knowing  what  she  was  saying,  and  wishing  that 
the  fair  blonde  whose  eyes  were  looking  so  steadily  into 
the  fire  would  say  something  more,  but  she  didn't. 

She  was  waiting  for  her  visitor  to  question  her,  which 

11* 


250  MRS.     FORREST'S    POLICY. 

she  presently  did,  for  she  could  never  leave  the  matter  in 
this  way,  so  she  said: 

"  Yon  will  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Forrest,  but  knowing  a 
little  makes  me  want  to  know  more.  It  seems  so  strange 
that  Everard  should  have  been  a  married  man  for  more 
than  four  years  and  we  never  suspect  it.  It  must  have 
been  a  private  marriage." 

"  Ye-es,  in  one  sense,"  Josephine  said,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  is  having  something  wrung  from  him  unwil- 
lingly.  "A  great  many  people  saw  us  married,  for  it 
was  in  a  drama, — a  play, — but  none  of  them  knew  it  was 
meant  to  be  real  and  binding,  except  Everard  and  my- 
self and  the  clergyman,  who  was  a  genuine  clergyman. 
We  knew  and  intended  it,  of  course,  or  it  would  not 
have  been  valid.  We  were  engaged,  and  did  it  on  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  thinking  no  harm.  Nor  was 
there,  except  that  we  were  both  so  young,  and  Everard 
not  through  college.  We  told  mother  and  sister,  but  no 
one  else,  and  as  the  villagers  did  not  know  of  our  inten- 
tion to  be  married,  or  that  Dr.  Matthewson  was  a  cler- 
gyman, they  never  suspected  the  truth,  and  the  secret 
was  to  be  kept  until  Everard  was  graduated,  and  after 
that " 

She  spoke  very  slowly  now,  and  drew  long  breaths,  as 
if  every  word  she  uttered  were  a  stab  to  her  heart. 

"  After  that  I  hoped  to  get  out  of  my  false  position, 
but  there  was  some  fear  of  Judge  Forrest,  which  kept 
Everard  silent,  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  tell  him, 
for  I  was  not  rich,  you  know,  and  he  might  be  angry;  so 
I  waited  patiently,  and  his  father  died,  and  I  went  to 
Europe,  and  thus  the  years  have  gone." 

The  blue  eyes,  in  which  the  tears  were  shining,  more 
from  steadily  gazing  into  the  fire  than  from  emotion  of 
any  kind,  were  lifted  to  Mrs.  Rider,  who  was  greatly  af- 
fected, and  then  said  : 

"  Yes,  I  see  ;  but  when  the  judge  died  there  was 
nothing  in  the  way  of  acknowledging  the  marriage.  I 
am  surprised  and  disappointed  in  Everard  that  he  should 
treat  you  thus." 

Mrs.  Rider's  sympathy  was  all  with  the  injured  wife, 
who  seemed  so  patient  and  uncomplaining,  and  who  re- 
plied : 

"  He  had  good  reasons,  no  doubt.     His  father  disiu- 


MRS.     FORREST'S    POLICY.  251 

herited  him,  I  believe,  and  that  may  have  had  its  effect ; 
but  I  do  not  wish  it  talked  about  until  Everard  comes. 
It  is  very  awkward  for  me  that  he  is  absent.  I  expected 
to  meet  him.  I  must  come,  of  course  ;  there  was  no  other 
way,  for  mamma  recently  died,  and  the  old  home  was 
broken  up.  I  must  come  to  my  husband." 

She  kept  asserting  it  as  if  in  apology  for  her  being 
there,  and  her  voice  trembled,  and  her  whole  air  was  one 
of  such  injured  innocence  that  Mrs.  Rider  resolved  within 
herself  to  stand  by  her  in  the  face  of  all  Rottosay,  if 
necessary.  Mrs.  Rider  was  a  very  motherly  little  woman, 
and  her  heart  went  out  at  once  to  this  girl,  whose  blue 
eyes  and  black  dress  appealed  so  strongly  to  her  sympa- 
thies. She  liked  Everard,  too,  and  did  not  mean  to  be 
disloyal  to  him,  if  she  could  help  it,  but  she  should 
stand  by  the  wife  ;  and  she  was  so  anxious  to  get  away 
and  talk  up  the  wonderful  news  with  her  acquaintances 
that  she  forgot  entirely  the  sirup  she  had  brought  for 
Rossie's  throat,  and  would  have  forgotten  to  inquire  after 
Rossie  herself  if  Aunt  Axie  had  not  accidentally  put  her 
head  in  the  door  and  given  vent  to  a  grunt  of  surprise 
and  disapprobation  when  she  saw  her  in  close  conversa- 
tion with  Josephine,  and,  with  her  knowledge  of  the 
lady's  character  for  gossip,  foresaw  the  result. 

"Oh,  Miss  Rider,  is  you  here?"  she  said,  advancing 
into  the  room  ;  "  and  does  Miss  Markham  know  it  ?  I'll 
fotch  her  directly,  'cause  Miss  Ros'mon's  too  sick  to  see 
yer." 

"Never  mind,  Axie,"  Mrs.  Rider  said,  rising  and  be- 
ginning to  adjust  her  waterproof.  "I  drove  up  to  in- 
quire after  Rossie,  and  have  spent  more  time  than  I 
intended  talking  with  Mrs.  Forrest,"  and  she  nodded 
toward  Josephine,  who  also  arose  and  acknowledged  the 
nod  and  name  with  a  gracious  bow. 

She  saw  the  impression  she  had  made  on  her  visitor, 
who  took  her  hand  at  parting,  and  said  : 

"  You  will  probably  remain  in  Rothsay  now,  and  I 
shall  hope  to  see  a  great  deal  of  you." 

Again  Josephine  bowed  assentingly  to  Mrs.  Rider, 
who  at  last  left  the  room,  followed  by  Axie,  whose  face 
was  like  a  thunder-cloud  as  she  almost  slammed  the  door 
in  the  lady's  face  iu  her  anxiety  to  be  rid  of  her. 


353       WHAT    THE    PEOPLE    SAID    AND    DID. 
CHAPTER  XXXII. 

WHAT  THE  PEOPLE   SAID   AND  DID. 


EFORE  bed-time  half  the  people  in  Rothsay 
knew  of  the  marriage,  and  that  Mrs.  Dr. 
Rider  had  seen  and  talked  with  the  lady,  who 
was  reported  as  very  beautiful,  and  young, 
and  stylish,  and  cultivated,  and  traveled,  and 
a  Bostonian,  whose  family  had  been  on  the  most  intimate 
terras  with  the  Bigelows.  She  was  also  a  friend  of  Bee 
Belknap,  who  had  spent  a  summer  with  her,  and  proba- 
bly knew  of  the  marriage,  which  was  a  sort  of  escapade 
gotten  up  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  and  kept  a  secret 
at  first  because  Everard  was  not  through  college,  and 
feared  his  father's  displeasure.  But  why  it  was  not 
made  public  after  the  judge's  death  was  a  question  which 
even  the  wise  ones  could  not  answer  ;  and  so  the  wonder 
and  excitement  increased. 

The  next  morning,  which  was  Sunday,  dawned  clear 
and  bright.  The  rain  was  over,  and  at  the  usual  hour 
the  Rothsayites  betook  themselves  to  their  accustomed 
place  of  worship.  Trinity  church  was  full  that  morning, 
for  though  the  people  hardly  expected  Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest 
herself,  they  did  expect  Mrs.  Markham,  and  hoped  to 
hear  something  more  from  her.  But  Mrs.  Markham  was 
not  there,  and  the  large,  square  pew  which  the  Forrests 
had  occupied  for  many  years,  and  which  was  far  up  the 
middle  aisle,  was  empty  until  the  reading  of  the  Psalms 
commenced,  when  there  was  heard  outside  the  sound  of 
rapidly  approaching  wheels,  which  stopped  before  the 
door,  and  a  moment  after  there  entered  a  graceful  figure 
clothed  in  black,  with  the  prettiest  little  Paris  bonnet 
perched  on  the  golden  hair,'  the  long  crape  vail  thrown 
brick,  disclosing  the  fair,  blonde  face,  which  was  a  little 
flushed,  while  the  blue  eyes  had  in  them  a  timid,  bashful 
expression  as  they  glanced  quickly  round  in  quest  of  the 
sexton,  who,  having  fulfilled  his  duties  at  the  bell,  had 
gone  to  the  organ  loft,  for  he  was  blower  as  well  as  bell- 
ringer,  and  left  to  others  the  task  of  seating  strangers. 
But  Josey  did  not  have  to  wait  long,  for  four  men, — two 


WHAT    THE    PEOPLE    SAID    AND    DID.      253 

young,  one  middle-aged,  and  one  white-haired  and  old, — • 
simultaneously  left  their  pews  and  made  a  movement  to- 
ward her,  the  youngest  reaching  her  first  and  asking  if 
she  would  have  a  seat. 

"Yes,  thank  you.  Please  show  me  Judge  Forrest's 
pew,"  was  the  reply,  and  every  head  was  turned  as  her 
long  skirts  went  trailing  up  the  aisle,  and  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  costly  and  delicate  perfume  she  carried 
with  her,  and  which  was  fresh  from  Pinaud's. 

What  a  long  time  she  remained  upon  her  knees,  and 
how  devout  she  was  after  she  had  arisen,  and  how  clearly 
and  sweetly  she  sang  the  "Gloria,"  and  how  wonderfully 
her  overskirt  was  looped,  and  how  jauntily  her  jacket 
fitted  her,  with  such  a  pretty  stand-up  collar,  and  how 
white  her  neck  was  above  it,  and  how  beautiful  the  wavy 
hair  under  the  lovely  bonnet.  All  these  details,  and 
more,  were  noted  by  every  woman  in  church  who  could 
get  a  view  of  her,  while  even  the  clergyman,  good  and 
conscientious  man  as  he  was,  found  it  difficult  to  keep 
his  eyes  from  straying  too  often  to  that  crimson- cush- 
ioned pew  and  the  black-robed  figure  whose  responses 
were  so  audible  and  clear,  and  who  seemed  the  very  in- 
carnation of  piety  and  innocence.  He  had  heard  of 
Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest,  and  he  guessed  who  the  stranger  was, 
and  when  service  was  over  he  came  down  to  speak  to 
her.  Mrs.  Rider,  however,  was  there  before  him,  and 
was  shaking  hands  with  the  lady,  whom  she  presented 
to  the  rector,  and  to  his  wife,  and  to  several  others  who 
sat  near,  and  who  involuntarily  moved  in  that  direction. 

And  Josephine  received  them  with  a  modesty  of  de- 
meanor which  won  their  sympathy,  if  not  their  hearts, 
at  once.  Not  the  slightest  allusion  did  they  make  to  her 
husband,  but  she  spoke  of  him  herself,  naturally  and 
easily.  She  had  hoped  to  find  him  at  home  when  she 
came  and  have  him  present  her  to  his  friends,  but  unex- 
pected business  had  called  him  away,  she  believed.  How- 
ever, he  would  soon  return,  as  Miss  Hastings  had  tele- 
graphed for  him,  and  then  she  should  not  feel  so  much 
alone. 

How  very  gentle  and  gracious  she  was,  answering 
all  questions  with  great  modesty,  and  without  seem- 
ing to  volunteer  any  direct  remarks,  adroitly  man- 
aging to  drop  a  good  many  scraps  of  information  with 


254  EVE  BAUD    FACES    IT. 

regard  to  herself  and  her  past  life,  all  of  course  highly 
advantageous  to  herself.  Of  Everard  she  said  very  little, 
but  when  she  did  speak  of  him  it  was  always  as  "  My 
husband,  Mr.  Forrest." 

She  should  certainly  expect  him  on  the  morrow,  she 
said,  and  then  she  should  not  feel  so  much  like  a  stranger, 

Eossibly  an  impostor,  and  she  laughed  a  little  musical 
tugh,  and  her  blue  eyes  sparkled  so  brightly  and  her 
lips  curled  so  prettily  that  every  heart  was  won,  and  the 
whole  bevy  of  ladies  follower!  her  to  the  carriage  telling 
her  they  should  call  and  see  her  very  soon,  stood  watch- 
ing her  as  she  drove  away,  and  talked  together  of  her 
and  her  recreant  husband,  in  whom  there  must  be  some- 
thing wrong,  or  he  would  long  ago  have  acknowledged 
this  peerlees  woman  as  his  wife.  And  so  the  talk  in- 
creased and  every  conceivable  story  was  set  afloat,  and 
poor  Everard  stood  at  rather  a  low  ebb  in  public 
opinion,  when  the  six  o'clock  train  came  in  the  next  day 
and  left  him  standing  upon  the  platform,  bewildered  and 
confounded  with  the  words  which  greeted  him  as  he  left 
the  car,  and  which  gave  him  the  first  intimation  of  what 
he  was  to  expect.  The  editor  of  the  Rothsay  Star  was 
standing  there,  and  hitting  Everard  upon  the  shoulder, 
exclaimed  : 

"  Hallo,  Forrest.  A  nice  trick  you've  been  playing 
upon  us, — married  all  this  time,  and  not  let  us  know." 

"  Married  !  What  do  you  mean  ?"  And  Everard 
turned  white  to  his  lips,  while  his  friend  replied  : 

"  What  do  I  mean  ?  Why,  I  mean  that  your  wife 
is  up  at  Forrest  House,  and  thunder  to  pay  generally." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

EVERARD     FACES     IT. 

HEN  Everard  was  interrupted  in  his  interview 
with  Rosamond,  his  first  feeling  was  one  of 
regret,  for  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  tell 
her  everything.  He  had  held  her  in  his  arms 
for  one  blissful  moment,  and  pressed  his  lips 
to  her  forehead,  and  the  memory  of  that  would  help  him 


EVERARD   FACES    IT.  255 

to  bear  the  wretchedness  of  all  the  after  life.  But  be- 
fore he  could  begin  his  story,  Lawyer  Russell  came  in, 
and  the  opportunity  was  lost.  He  could,  however,  write, 
and  he  fully  meant  to  do  so,  and  after  his  arrival  at 
Dighton  he  began  two  or  three  letters,  which  he  tore  in 
pieces,  for  he  found  it  harder  than  he  had  expected  to 
confess  that  he  had  a  wife  to  the  girl  he  had  kissed  so 
passionately,  and  who,  he  felt  certain,  loved  him  in  re- 
turn. He  had  seen  it  in  her  eyes,  which  knew  no  decep- 
tion, and  in  the  blushes  on  her  cheek,  and  his  greatest 
pain  came  from  the  knowledge  that  she,  too,  must  suffer 
through  him.  And  so  he  put  off  the  writing  day  after 
day,  and  employed  his  leisure  moments  in  hunting  up 
the  laws  of  Indiana  on  divorce,  and  felt  surprised  to  find 
how  comparatively  easy  it  was  for  those  whom  Heaven 
had  joined  together  to  be  put  asunder  by  the  courts  of 
man.  Desertion,  failure  to  support,  uncongeniality,  were 
all  valid  reasons  for  breaking  the  bonds  of  matrimony  ; 
and  from  reading  and  dwelling  so  much  upon  it  he  came 
at  last  to  consider  it  seriously  as  something  which  in  his 
case  was  excusable.  Whatever  Rossie  might  think  of  it 
he  should  be  happier  to  know  the  tie  was  broken,  even 
if  the  whole  world  disapproved  ;  and  he  at  last  deliber- 
ately made  up  his  mind  to  free  himself  from  the  hated 
marriage,  which  grew  tenfold  more  hateful  to  him  when 
there  came  to  his  knowledge  a  fact  which  threw  light  at 
once  upon  some  things  he  had  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand in  Dr.  Matthewson. 

He  was  sitting  one  evening  in  the  room  devoted 
mostly  to  the  use  of  gentlemen  at  the  hotel  where  he 
was  stopping,  and  listening  in  a  careless  kind  of  way  to 
the  conversation  of  two  men,  one  an  inmate  of  the  house, 
and  the  other  a  traveler  just  arrived  from  western  New 
York.  For  a  time  the  talk  flowed  on  indifferent  topics, 
and  drifted  at  last  to  Clarence,  where  it  seemed  that 
both  men  had  once  lived,  and  about  which  the  Dightou 
man  was  asking  some  questions. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  whatever  became  of  that 
Matthewson,  he  called  himself,  though  his  real  name 
when  I  first  knew  him  was  Hastings.  You  know  the 
Methodist  Church  got  pretty  well  bitten  with  him.  He 
was  always  the  tallest  kind  of  a  rascal.  I  knew  him. 
well." 


256  EVERARD    FACES   IT. 

Everard  was  interested  now,  and  while  seeming  to 
read  the  paper  he  held  in  his  hands,  did  not  lose  a  word 
of  all  which  followed  next. 

"Matthewson?  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  the  Clarence  man 
replied.  "  You  mean  the  fellow  who  was  so  miraculously 
converted  at  a  camp-meeting,  and  then  took  to  preach- 
iflg,  though  a  bigger  hypocrite  never  lived.  I  don't 
know  where  he  is  now.  He  dabbled  in  medicine  after 
he  left  Clarence,  and  got  "Doctor"  hitched  to  his  name, 
and  has  been  gambling  through  the  country  ever  since. 
The  last  I  heard  of  him  somebody  wrote  to  Clarence 
asking  if  he  had  a  right  to  marry  a  couple,  by  which  I 
infer  that  he  has  been  doing  a  little  ministerial  duty  by 
way  of  diversion." 

"I  should  hardly  think  a  marriage  performed  by  him 
valid,  though  I  dare  say  it  would  hold  in  court,"  the 
Dighton  man,  who  was  a  lawyer,  replied  ;  adding,  after 
a  moment,  "  Matthewson  is  the  name  of  his  aunt,  which 
he  took  at  her  death,  together  with  a  few  thousands  she 
left  him.  His  real  name  is  John  Hastings.  I  knew  him 
when  he  was  a  boy,  and  he  was  the  most  vindictive,  un- 
principled person  I  ever  met,  and  his  father  was  not 
much  better,  though  both  could  be  smooth  as  oil,  and  in- 
gratiate themselves  into  most  anybody's  favor.  He  had 
a  girl  in  tow  some  two  or  three  years  ago,  I  was  told  ;  a 
very  handsome  filly,  but  fast  as  the  Old  Nick  himself,  if, 
indeed,  she  was  not  worse  than  that." 

Here  the  conversation  was  brought  to  a  close,  and 
Everard  went  to  his  room,  where  for  a  time  he  sat, 
stunned  and  powerless  to  move.  Like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning it  came  upon  him  just  who  Dr.  Matthewson  was, 
and  his  mind  went  back  to  that  night  when,  with  a  rash 
boy's  impetuosity,  he  had  raised  his  hand  against  the 
mature  man  who,  while  smarting  under  the  blows,  had 
sworn  to  be  revenged.  And  he  had  kept  his  word,  and 
Everard  could  understand  now  why  he  had  seemed  so 
willing  and  even  anxious  that  there  should  be  a  perfect 
understanding  of  the  matter  so  as  to  make  the  marriage 
valid. 

"  Curse  him  !"  Everard  said  to  himself.  "  He  meant 
to  ruin  me.  He  could  not  have  known  what  Josey  was, 
but  he  knew  it  was  not  a  fitting  match  for  me,  and  no 
time  or  way  for  me  to  marry,  if  it  were;  but  that  was  his 


EVEBARD    FACES   IT.  257 

revenge.  I  remember  he  asked  me  if  I  did  not  fear  the 
man  whom  I  had  punished,  and  said  people  like  him  did 
not  take  cowhidings  meekly;  and  he  is  Rossie's  half- 
brother;  but  if  1  can  help  it,  she  shall  never  know  how 
he  has  injured  me,  the  rascal.  I'll  have  a  divorce  now, 
at  all  hazards,  even  though  it  may  do  me  no  good,  so 
far  as  Rossie  is  concerned.  I'll  nee  that  lawyer  to- 
morrow and  tell  him  the  whole  story." 

But  before  the  morrow  came,  Everard  received  Mrs. 
Markham's  telegram,  which  startled  him  so  much  that  he 
forgot  everything  in  his  haste  to  return  home  and  see  if 
aught  had  befallen  Rosamond.  It  had  something  to  do 
with  her  he  was  sure,  but  no  thought  that  it  had  to  do 
with  Josephine  entered  his  mind  until  he  stepped  from 
the  car  and  heard  that  she  was  at  the  Forrest  House. 
For  an  instant  his  brain  reeled,  and  he  felt  and  acted  like 
a  drunken  man,  as  he  went  to  claim  his  traveling-bag. 
Then,  without  a  word  to  any  one,  he  walked  rapidly 
away  in  the  darkness,  with  a  face  as  white  as  the  few 
snow-flakes  which  were  just  beginning  to  fall,  and  a  feel- 
ing like  death  in  his  heart  as  he  thought  of  Rossie  left 
alone  to  confront  Joe  Fleming  as  his  wife.  And  yet  it 
did  not  seem  very  strange  to  him  that  Josephine  was 
there.  It  was  rather  as  if  he  had  expected  it,  just  as  the 
murderer  expects  the  day  when  his  sin  will  find  him  out. 
Everard's  sin  had  found  him  out,  and  as  he  sped  along 
the  highway,  half  running  in  his  haste  to  know  the  worst, 
he  was  almost  glad  that  the  thing  he  had  dreaded  so  long 
had  come  at  last,  and  to  himself  he  said  : 

"I'll  face  it  like  a  man,  whatever  the  result  may  be." 
From  the  windows  of  Rossie's  room  a  faint  light  was 
shining,  but  it  told  him  nothing  of  the  sick  girl  lying 
there,  so  nervous  and  excited  that  bright  fever  spots 
burned  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  hands  and  feet  were  like 
lumps  of  ice  as  she  waited  and  listened  for  him,  hearing 
him  the  moment  he  struck  the  gravel-walk  beneath  her 
window,  for  he  purposely  turned  aside  from  the  front 
piazza,  choosing  to  enter  the  house  in  the  rear,  lest  he 
should  first  encounter  the  woman,  who,  like  Rossie, 
was  wailing  and  watching  for  him,  and  feeling  herself 
grow  hot  and  cold  alternately  as  she  wondered  what 
he  would  say.  Like  Rossie,  she  was  sure  he  would 
come  on  that  train,  and  had  made  herself  as  attractive 


258  EVERARD    FACES   IT. 

as  possible  in  her  black  cashmere  and  jet,  with  the  white 
shawl  around  her  shoulders,  and  her  golden  hair  falling 
on  her  neck  in  heavy  masses  of  curls.  And  then, 
with  a  French  novel  in  her  hand,  she  sat  down  to  wait 
for  the  first  sound  of  the  carriage  which  was  to  bring 
him,  for  she  did  not  dream  of  his  walking  that  cold,  wet 
night,  and  was  not  on  the  alert  to  see  the  tall  figure 
which  came  so  swiftly  through  the  darkness,  skulking 
like  a  thief  behind  the  shrubbery  till  it  reached  the  rear 
door,  where  it  entered,  and  stood  face  to  face  with  old 
Aunt  Axie,  who  in  her  surprise  almost  dropped  the  bowl 
of  gruel  she  had  been  preparing  for  Rosamond.  She 
did  spill  it,  she  set  it  down  so  quickly,  and  putting  both 
her  hands  on  Everard's  shoulders  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Oh,  Mars'r  Everard,  praise  de  Lord  you  am  come  at 
last !  I  couldn't  b'ar  it  much  longer,  with  Miss  Rossie 
sick  up  sta'rs,  and  that  woman  below  swashin'  round 
wid  her  long-tailed  gowns,  an'  her  yaller  ha'r  hangin' 
down  her  back,  and  sayin'  she  is  your  wife.  She  isn't 
your  wife,  Mas'r  Everard, — she  isn't?"  and  Axie  looked 
earnestly  at  the  young  man,  who  would  have  given 
more  than  half  his  life  to  have  been  able  to  say,  "  No, 
she  is  not." 

But  he  could  not  do  that,  and  his  voice  shook  as  he 
replied  : 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Axie,  she  is  my  wife." 

Axie  did  not  cry  out  or  say  a  word  at  first,  but  her 
black  face  quivered  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  she 
took  a  rapid  mental  survey  of  the  case  as  it  stood  now. 
Everard's  wife  must  of  course  be  upheld  for  the  credit  of 
the  family,  and,  though  the  old  negress  knew  there  was 
something  wrong,  it  was  not  for  her  to  inquire  or  to  let 
others  do  so  either  ;  and  when  at  last  she  spoke,  she 
said  : 

"  If  she's  your  wife,  then  I  shall  stan'  by  her." 

He  did  not  thank  her  or  seem  to  care  whether  she 
stood  by  his  wife  or  not,  for  his  next  question  was  : 

"  You  said  Rosamond  was  sick.  What  is  the 
matter  ?" 

"  Sore  throat  and  bad  cold  fust,  and  then  your  wife 
corned  an'  took  us  by  surprise,  an'  Miss  Rossie  fainted 
cl'ar  away,  and  has  been  as  white,  an'  still,  an'  slimpsy 
as  a  rag  ever  since." 


EVERARD    AND    ROSSIE.  259 

Something  like  a  groan  escaped  from  Everard's  lips, 
as  he  said  : 

"Tell  Miss  Rossie  I  am  here,  and  ask  if  I  can  see  her, 
— at  once,  before  I  meet  anybody  else." 

"  Yes,  I'll  tell  her,"  Axie  said,  as  she  hurried  to  the 
room,  where,  to  her  great  surprise,  she  found  her  young 
mistress  in  her  flannel  dressing-gown  and  shawl,  sitting 
in  her  easy-chair,  with  her  head  resting  upon  pillows 
scarcely  whiter  than  her  face,  save  where  the  red  spots 
of  fever  burned  so  brightly. 

In  spite  of  Mrs.  Markham's  remonstrance  Rossie  had 
insisted  upon  getting  up  and  being  partly  dressed. 

u  I  must  see  Everard,"  she  said.  "  You  can't  under- 
stand, and  I  can't  explain,  but  he  will  come  to  me,  and 
I  must  see  him  alone. 

"  Yes.  Tell  him  to  come  up;  I  am  ready  for  him,1' 
she  said  to  Aunt  Axie. 

And  Everard  advanced,  with  a  sinking  heart,  and 
knocked  at  Rossie's  door  just  as  a  black-robed  figure, 
with  a  white  wool  shawl  wrapped  around  it,  started  to 
come  up  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 
EVEKAKD    AND    EOSSIE. 

HE  voice  which  said  "  Come  in  "  did  not  sound 
like  Rossie's  at  all,  nor  did  the  little  girl  sit- 
ting in  the  chair  look  much  like  the  Rossie 
he  had  last  seen,  flushed  with  health  and  hap- 
piness, and  the  light  of  a  great  joy  shining 
in  the  eyes  which  now  turned  so  eagerly  toward  him  as 
he  came  in.  On  the  stairs  outside  there  was  the  rustling 
of  skirts,  and  he  heard  it,  and  involuntarily  slid  the 
bolt  of  the  door,  and  then  swiftly  crossed  to  where  Ros- 
sie's face  was  upturned  to  his  with  a  smile  of  welcome, 
and  Rossie's  hands  were  both  outstretched  to  him  as  she 
said: 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Everard,  I  am  glad  you  have  come  ;  we 
have  wanted  you  so  much." 


260  EVERARD    AND    ROSSIE. 

He  had  thought  she  would  meet  him  with  coldness 
and  scorn  for  his  weakness  and  duplicity,  and  he  was 
prepared  for  that,  but  not  for  this  ;  and  forgetting  him- 
self utterly  for  the  moment,  he  took  the  offered  hands 
and  held  them  tightly  in  his  own,  until  she  released  them 
from  him  and  motioned  him  to  a  seat  opposite  her, 
where  he  could  look  into  her  face,  which,  now  that  ho 
saw  it  more  closely,  had  on  it  such  a  grieved,  disap- 
pointed expression  that  he  cried  out  : 

"  Kill  me,  Rossie,  if  you  will  !  but  don't  look  at  me 
that  way,  for  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  know  what  I've  done 
and  what  I  am,  better  than  you  do." 

Here  he  paused,  and  Rossie  said  : 

"I  am  sorry,  Everard,  that  you  did  not  tell  me  long 
ago,  when  it  first  happened.  Four  years  and  more,  she 
says.  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  it  must  have  been 
that  time  you  came  home  when  your  mother  died  and 
you  were  so  sick  afterward.  You  were  married  then." 

How  quietly  and  naturally  she  spoke  the  words 
"married  then,"  as  if  it  was  nothing  to  her  that  he  was 
married  then  or  now,  but  the  hot  blood  flamed  up  for  a 
moment  in  her  face  and  then  left  it  whiter  than  before, 
as  Everard  replied  : 

"  Yes,  if  that  can  be  called  a  marriage  which  was  a 
mere  farce,  and  has  brought  nothing  but  bitter  humilia- 
tion to  me,  and  been  the  cause  of  my  ruin.  I  wish  that 
day  had  been  blotted  from  my  existence." 

"  Hush,  Everard,"  Rossie  said.  "You  must  not  talk 
that  way,  and  your  wife  here  in  the  house  waiting  for 
you.  I  have  not  seen  her  yet,  but  they  tell  me  she  is 
very  beautiful." 

"  Yes,  with  that  cursed  beauty  which  lures  men,  or 
rather  fools,  to  their  destruction  ;  and  I  was  a  fool  !" 
Everard  answered,  bitterly, — "an  idiot,  who  thought 
myself  in  love.  Don't  call  her  my  wife,  Rossie.  She 
has  never  been  that  ;  never  will  be.  But  I  did  not  come 
here  to  abuse  her.  I  came  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth  at 
last,  as  I  ought  to  have  told  it  years  ago,  when  my 
mother  was  on  her  death-bed.  I  tried  to  tell  her,  but 
I  could  not.  I  made  a  beginning  by  showing  her 
Josephine's  picture,  which  she  did  not  like.  The  face 
was  pretty,  she  said,  but  not  the  face  of  a  true,  refined 
woman,  but  rather  of  one  who  wore  dollar  jewelry,"  and 


EVERARD    AND    ROSSIS.  261 

here  E'/erard  laughed  sarcastically  as  he  went  on  ;  "then 
I  showed  the  picture  to  Bee,  who  said  she  looked  as  if 
she  might  wear  cotton  lace.  But  you,  Rossie,  said  the 
hardest  thing  of  all,  and  decided  me  finally  not  to  tell, 
for  I  had  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  make  you  my  con- 
fidante." 

"I,  Everard  ?  I  decided  you?  You  must  be  mis- 
taken. When  was  it,  Everard  ?"  Rossie  exclaimed,  her 
eyes  growing  very  large  and  bright  in  her  excitement. 

"  Do  you  remember  I  once  showed  you  a  picture  of  a 
young  girl  ?"  Everard  said.  "  You  were  watering 
flowers  in  the  garden  ;  and  you  said  she  was  very  beauti- 
ful, but  suggested  that  the  jewelry,  of  which  there  was  a 
superfluity  on  her  neck  and  arms,  might  be  a  sham,  and 
said  she  looked  like  a  sham,  too.  How  could  I  tell  you 
after  that,  that  she  was  ray  wife  ?  I  couldn't,  and  I  kept 
it  to  myself ;  and  mother  died,  and  I  went  crazy,  and 
you  cut  off  your  hair  and  sold  it  to  pay  what  you  be- 
lieved to  be  a  gambling  debt,  and  you  wrote  to  Joe 
Fleming,  and  I  did  not  open  my  lips  to  undeceive  you. 

"  I  will  have  my  say  out,"  he  continued,  fiercely,  as 
Rossie  put  up  her  hands  to  stop  him  ;  "  I  deserve  a  good 
cudgeling,  and  I'll  give  it  to  myself,  for  no  one  knows  as 
well  as  I  do  just  what  a  sneaking  coward  I  have  been  all 
these  years,  when  you  have  been  believing  in  me  and  keep- 
ing me  from  going  to  the .  No,  I  won't  swear;  at  least 

before  you,  who  have  been  my  good  angel  ever  since 
you  knew  enough  to  chide  me  for  my  faults.  Oh,  Ros- 
sie !  what  would  I  give  to  be  put  back  to  those  old  days 
when  I  was  comparatively  innocent,  and  you,  in  your 
cape  sun-bonnet  and  long-sleeverl  aprons,  were  the  dear- 
est, sweetest  little  girl  in  all  the  world,  just  as  you  are 
now.  I  will  say  it,  though  I  am  killing  you,  I  know,  and 
I  am  almost  wicked  enough  not  to  care,  for  I  would 
rather  there  were  no  Rossie  in  this  world  than  to  know 
she  lived  to  hate  and  despise  me." 

"  No,  Everard,  never  that,  never !"  and  Rossie  again 
stretched  toward  him  her  pale  little  hands,  which  he 
seized  and  held  while  he  told  her  rapidly  the  whole  story 
of  his  marriage,  beginning  at  the  time  he  first  saw  Josey 
Fleming  and  went  to  board  with  her  mother. 

One  item,  however,  he  withheld.  He  did  not  tell  her 
that  it  was  her  half-brother  who  had  married  him,  nor 


263  SVBRABD    AND    ROSSIE. 

did  he  give  the  name  of  the  clergyman.  He  would  spare 
her  all  pain  in  that  direction,  if  possible,  and  let  her 
think  as  well  as  she  could  of  the  brother  she  could 
scarcely  remember,  and  who,  she  believed,  must  be  dead, 
or  he  would  ere  this  have  manifested  some  interest  in 
her. 

Of  Josephine  he  spoke  very  plainly,  and  though  he 
did  not  exaggerate  her  faults,  he  showed  conclusively, 
in  what  he  said,  that  his  love  for  her  had  long  since  died 
out,  and  he  went  on  from  one  fact  to  another  so  rapidly  that 
Rossie  felt  stunned  and  bewildered  and  begged  him  to 
stop.  But  he  would  not.  She  must  hear  him  through,  he 
said,  and  at  the  close  of  his  story  she  looked  so  white  and 
tired  that  he  bent  over  her  in  alarm,  chafing  her  cold 
hands  and  asking  what  he  could  do  for  her. 

"Nothing  but  to  leave  me  now,"  she  said.  "I  have 
heard  so  much  and  borne  so  much  that  none  of  it  seems 
real.  "  There's  a  buzzing  in  my  head,  and  I  believe  I'm 
going  to  faint  again,  or  die.  How  could  you  do  all  this, 
and  I  trusted  you  so  ? — and,  oh,  Everard,  where  are  you  ? 
It  grows  so  dark  and  black,  and  I'm  so  sick  and  faint," 
and  with  a  sobbing,  hysterical  cry,  Rossie  involuntarily 
let  her  tired,  aching  head  fall  upon  the  arm  which  held 
it  so  gladly,  and  which  fain  would  have  kept  it  there 
forever. 

Rossie  did  not  faint  quite  away,  as  she  had  done 
when  the  news  of  Everard's  marriage  reached  her,  but 
she  lay  still  and  helpless  in  Everard's  arms  until  she  felt 
his  hot  kisses  upon  her  forehead,  and  that  roused  her 
at  once.  He  had  no  right  to  kiss  her,  she  no  right  to 
suffer  it,  and  she  drew  herself  away  from  him  to  the  safe 
shelter  of  her  pillows,  as  she  said,  with  her  old  childish 
manner: 

"  Everard,  you  must  not  kiss  me  like  that.  It  is  too 
late.  Such  things  are  over  between  us  now." 

She  seemed  to  accept  the  fact  that  he  loved  her,  and 
though  the  love  was  hopeless,  and,  turn  which  way  she 
would,  there  was  no  brightness  in  the  future,  the  knowl- 
edge of  what  might  have  been  was  in  one  sense  very 
sweet  to  her,  and  the  face  which  Everard  took  between 
his  hands  and  looked  earnestly  into,  while  his  lips  quiv- 
ered and  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  seemed  to  him  like 
the  face  of  an  angel. 


MR.   AND    MRS.   J.   E.   FORREST.  263 

"  Heaven  pity  me,  Rossie,"  he  said.  "  Heaven  pity 
us  both  for  this  which  lies  between  us."  There  was  a 
knock  outside  the  door  and  a  voice  Rossie  had  never 
heard  before,  said: 

"Miss  Hastings,  if  my  husband  is  with  you,  tell  him 
his  wife  will  be  glad  to  see  him  when  he  can  tear  himself 
away.  I  have  waited  an  hour,  and  surely  I  may  claim 
my  own  now." 

There  was  an  unmistakable  coarseness  of  meaning  in 
the  words  which  brought  the  hot  blood  to  Rossie's  cheeks, 
but  Everard  was  pale  as  death,  as,  with  a  muttered  exe- 
cration, he  stepped  back  from  Rossie,  who  said: 

"  Yes,  go,  Everard.  She  is  right.  Her  claim  is  first. 
Say  I  am  sorry  I  kept  you.  Go,  and  when  I  have  thought 
it  all  out  I'll  send  for  you,  but  don't  come  till  I  do." 

She  motioned  him  to  leave  her,  and  with  the  look  of 
one  going  to  the  rack,  he  obeyed,  and  unbolting  the 
door,  went  out,  shutting  it  quickly  behind  him,  and  thus 
giving  the  woman  outside  no  chance  for  more  than  a 
glance  at  the  white-faced  little  girl,  of  whose  personal 
appearance  no  impression  could  be  formed. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 
MB.    AND  MRS.    J.    E.    FORREST. 

T  had  been  Josephine's  intention  to  try  and 
make  peace  with  her  husband,  if  possible,  in 
the  hope  of  winning  him  back  to  at  least  an 
outward  semblance  of  harmony.  And  to  do 
this  she  relied  much  on  her  beauty,  which 
she  knew  had  not  diminished  in  the  least  since  those 
summer  days  in  Holburton,  when  he  had  likened  her  to 
every  beautiful  thing  in  the  universe.  She  knew  she 
was  more  attractive  now  than  then,  for  she  had  studied 
to  acquire  an  air  of  refinement  and  high-breeding  which 
greatly  enhanced  her  charms,  and  when  she  saw  herself 
in  the  long  mirror,  with  her  toilet  complete,  and  the 
made-up  expression  of  sweetness  and  graciousnes  on  her 
face,  she  felt  almost  sure  he  could  not  withstand  her. 


264  MR.   AND    MRS.   J.   E.   FORREST. 

She  had  heard  from  Lois  that  Everard  was  in  the 
house,  and  as  the  moments  went  by  and  he  did  not  come, 
the  sweetness  left  her  face,  and  there  was  a  glitter  in  her 
blue  eyes,  as  she  walked  impatiently  up  and  down  her 
chamber,  listening  for  his  footsteps. 

At  last,  as  she  grew  more  and  more  impatient,  she 
went  down  to  the  dining-room,  thinking  to  find  him 
there  ;  but  he  was  still  with  Axie  in  the  kitchen,  and  so 
she  waited  until  she  heard  his  step  as  he  went  rapidly  up 
the  stairs. 

Swiftly  and  noiselessly  she  glided  into  the  ball  and 
followed,  but  was  only  in  time  to  see  the  shutting  of  the 
door  of  Rossie's  room  and  hear  the  sliding  of  the  bolt, 
while  her  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  Rossie's  voice 
as  she  welcomed  Everard.  For  a  moment  Josephine 
stood  shaking  with  rage,  and  feeling  an  inclination  to 
kick  at  the  closed  door,  and  demand  an  entrance.  But 
she  hardly  dared  do  that,  and  so  she  waited,  and 
strained  her  ear  to  catch  the  conversation  carried  on  so 
rapidly,  but  in  so  low  a  tone  and  so  far  from  her  that 
she  could  not  hear  it  all,  or  even  half.  But  she  knew 
Everard  was  telling  the  story  of  the  marriage,  and  as  he 
grew  more  earnest  his  voice  naturally  rose  higher,  until 
she  could  hear  what  he  said,  but  not  Rossie's  replies. 
Involuntarily  clenching  her  fists,  and  biting  her  lips  until 
the  blood  came  through  in  one  place,  she  listened  still 
more  intently  and  knew  there  was  no  hope  for  her,  and 
felt  sure  that  the  only  feeling  she  could  now  inspire  in 
her  husband's  heart  was  one  of  hatred  and  disgust. 

At  last,  when  she  could  endure  the  suspense  no  longer, 
she  knocked  upon  the  door  and  claimed  "  her  own  "  and 
got  it,  for  her  husband,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  more 
than  two  years,  stood  face  to  face  with  her,  a  tall,  well- 
developed  man,  with  a  will  and  a  purpose  in  his  brown 
eyes,  and  a  firm-set  expression  about  his  mouth  which 
made  him  a  very  different  person  from  the  boy-lover 
whom  she  had  swayed  at  her  pleasure. 

Everard  was  a  thorough  gentleman,  and  it  was  not 
in  his  nature  to  be  otherwise  than  courteous  to  any 
woman,  and  he  bowed  to  Josephine  with  as  much  polite- 
ness and  deference  as  if  it  had  been  Bee  Belknap  stand- 
ing there  so  dignified  and  self-possessed,  and  with  an  air 
of  assurance  and  worldly  wisdom  such  as  he  had  never 


MR.   AND    MRS.   J.   E.   FORREST.  265 

seen  in  Josephine  Fleming.  For  a  moment  he  looked  at 
her  in  surprise,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  welcome  in  his 
face,  no  token  of  admiration  for  the  visible  improvement 
in  her.  He  had  an  artist's  eye,  and  noticed  that  her 
dress  was  black,  and  that  it  became  her  admirably,  and 
that  the  delicate  white  shawl  was  so  knotted  and  ar- 
ranged as  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  picture  ;  but  he 
knew  the  woman  so  well  that  nothing  she  could  do  or 
wear  could  move  him  now.  When  she  saw  that  she 
must  speak  first,  she  laughed  a  little,  spiteful  laugh,  and 
said  : 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  after  two  years' 
separation,  or  have  you  exhausted  yourself  with  her?" 
nodding  toward  Rossie's  door. 

That  roused  him,  and  he  answered  her  : 

"  Yes,  much  to  say,  and  some  things  to  explain  and 
apologize  for,  but  not  here.  I  will  go  with  you  to  your 
room.  They  tell  me  you  are  occupying  my  old  quarters." 

He  tried  to  speak  naturally,  and  Josephine's  heart 
beat  faster  as  she  thought  that  possibly  he  might  be  won 
to  an  outward  seeming  of  friendship  after  all,  and  it 
would  be  better  for  her  every  way.  So,  when  the  pri- 
vacy of  her  chamber  was  reached,  and  there  was  no 
danger  of  interruption,  she  affected  the  loving  wife,  and 
laying  her  hands  on  Everard's  arm,  said,  coaxingly  and 
prettily  : 

"  Don't  be  so  cold  and  hard,  Everard,  as  if  you  were 
sorry  I  came.  I  had  nowhere  else  to  go,  and  I'm  no 
more  to  blame  for  being  your  wife  than  you  are  for 
being  my  husband,  and  I  certainly  have  just  cause  to 
complain  of  you  for  having  kept  me  so  long  in  ignorance 
of  your  father's  death.  Why  did  you  do  it  ?  But  I 
need  not  ask  why,"  she  continued,  as  she  saw  the  frown 
on  his  face,  and  guessed  he  was  not  to  be  coaxed  ;  "  the 
reason  is  in  the  apartment  you  have  just  quitted." 

Josephine  got  no  further,  for  Everard  interrupted 
her  and  sternly  bade  her  stop. 

"  So  long  as  you  censure  me  for  having  kept  my 
father's  death  a  secret  from  you  I  am  bound  to  listen,  for 
I  deserve  it ;  but  when  you  assail  Rosamond  Hastings 
you  have  gone  too  far.  I  do  not  wish  to  quarrel  with 
you,  Josey,  but  we  may  as  well  understand  each  other 
first  as  last.  You  had  a  right  to  come  here,  thinking  it 
12 


266  MR.    AND    MRS.   J.   E.    FORREST. 

was  still  ray  home,  and  I  am  justly  punished  for  my  de- 
ceit, for  which  no  one  can  hate  me  as  I  hate  myself.  If 
I  had  been  candid  and  frank  from  the  first,  it  would 
have  saved  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  self-abase- 
ment. You  heard  of  my  father's  death " 

"  Yes,  but  no  thanks  are  due  you  for  the  information. 
Mr.  Everts,  whom  I  met  in  Dresden,  told  me  of  it.  At 
first  I  did  not  believe  him,  for  I  had  credited  you  with 
being  a  man  of  honor,  but  he  convinced  me  of  the  fact, 
and  in  my  anger  I  started  home  at  once,  and  came  here, 
to  find  that  girl  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and,  they  tell 
me,  your  father's  heir.  Is  that  true  ?" 

"  I've  nothing  but  what  I  earn,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
think  I  have  proved  conclusively  that  I  can  support  you, 
whatever  may  come  to  me,  and  I  expect  to  do  so  still, 
but  it  must  be  apart  from  myself.  I  wisli  that  distinctly 
understood,  as  it  will  save  further  discussion.  You 
could  not  be  happy  with  me  ;  I  should  be  miserable  with 
you  after  knowing  what  I  do,  and  seeing  what  I  have 
seen." 

Here  she  turned  fiercely  upon  him,  and  with  flashing 
eyes  and  dilated  nostrils  demanded  what  he  meant. 

"I  will  tell  you  when  I  reach  it,"  he  replied  ;  "but 
first,  let  me  go  over  the  ground  from  the  beginning " 

"No  need  of  that,"  she  replied,  angrily.  "  You  went 
over  the  ground  with  her, — that  girl  whom  I  hate  with 
deadly  hatred.  I  heard  you.  I  was  outside  the  door." 

"Listening!"  Everard  said,  contemptuously.  "A 
worthy  employment,  to  which  no  lady  would  stoop." 

"Who  said  I  was  a  lady  ?"  she  retorted,  stung  by  his 
manner  and  the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  forgetting  herself 
entirely  in  her  wrath.  "  Don't  you  suppose  I  know 
that  it  was  because  I  was  not  a  lady  according  to  your 
creed  that  your  father  objected  to  me  arid  that  yon  have 
sickened  of  me.  A  poor,  unknown  butcher's  daughter  is 
not  a  fit  match  for  you  ;  and  I  was  just  that.  You 
thought  you  married  the  daughter  of  Roxie  Fleming, 
who  kept  a  boarding-house,  and  so  you  did,  and  some- 
thing more.  You  married  the  daughter  of  the  man  who 
used  to  deliver  meat  at  your  grandfather's  door  in  Bos- 
ton, and  of  the  woman  who  for  years  cooked  in  your 
mother's  family.  I  knew  this  when  you  first  came  to  us, 
and  laughed  in  my  sleeve,  for  I  kn,ow  how  proud  you. 


MR.   AND    MRS.   J.   E.   FORREST.  267 

are  of  family  blood  and  birth,  and  I  can  boast  of  blood, 
too,  but  it  is  the  blood  of  beasts,  in  which  my  father 
dealt,  not  the  blue-veined  kind,  which  shows  itself  in 
hypocrisy  and  the  deliberate  deception  of  years.  I  told 
your  father,  when  I  met  him  at  Commencement,  that  my 
mother  was  present  at  his  wedding,  and  she  was.  She 
made  the  jellies  and  ices,  and  stood  with  the  other  ser- 
vants to  see  the  ceremony.  Wouldn't  your  lady  mother 
turn  over  in  her  coffin  if  she  could  know  just  whom  her 
boy  married  ?" 

Was  she  a  woman,  or  a  demon  ?  Everard  wondered,  as 
he  replied  : 

"If  possible,  I  would  rather  not  bring  my  mother 
into  the  conversation,  but  since  you  will  have  it  so,  I 
must  tell  you  that  she  did  know  who  you  were." 

"  How  !  did  you  tell  your  mother  of  the  marriage, 
and  have  you  kept  that  from  me,  too  ?"  Josephine  asked, 
and  he  replied  : 

"I  did  not  tell  her  of  the  marriage,  although  I  tried 
to,  and  made  a  beginning  by  showing  her  your  picture, 
and  telling  her  your  name  and  that  of  your  mother, 
whom  she  at  once  identified  as  the  Roxie  who  had  lived 
in  her  father's  family  so  long." 

"  And  of  course  my  fine  lady  objected  to  such  stock," 
Josephine  said,  with  a  sneer  in  her  voice. 

"  Josephine,"  and  Everard  spoke  more  sternly  than 
he  had  ever  spoken  to  her  in  his  life,  '*  say  what  you 
like  to  me,  but  don't  mention  my  mother  in  that  tone  or 
spirit  again.  She  did  not  despise  you  for  your  birth. 
No  true  woman  would  do  that.  She  said  that  innate  re- 
finement or  delicacy  of  feeling  would  always  assert  itself, 
and  raise  one  above  the  lowest  and  humblest  of  positions. 
Almost  her  last  words  to  me  were  of  you,  in.  whom  she 
knew  I  was  interested,  for  I  had  confessed  as  much. 

"  '  If  she  is  so  good,  and  womanly,  and  true,  her  birth 
is  of  no  consequence — none  whatever,'  she  said.  So 
you  see  she  laid  less  stress  upon  it  than  do  you,  who 
know  better  than  she  did  whether  you  are  good,  and 
womanly  and  true." 

Here  Josephine  began  to  cry,  but  Everard  did  not 
h^ed  her  tears,  and  went  on  : 

"  There  is  in  this  country  no  degradation  in  honest 
labor  ;  it  is  the  character,  the  actions,  which  tell  ;  and 


203  MR.   AND    MRS.   J.   E.    FORREST. 

were  you  what  I  believed  you  to  be  when  in  my  mad- 
ness I  consented  to  that  foolish  farce,  I  would  not  care 
though  your  origin  were  the  lowest  which  can  be  con- 
ceived." 

Here  Josephine  stopped  crying,  and  demanded, 
sharply  : 

"  What  am  I,  pray  ?  What  do  you  know  of  me  ? — 
you,  who  have  scarcely  seen  me  half  a  dozen  times  since 
I  became  your  wife." 

"  I  know  more  than  you  suppose, — have  seen  more 
than  you  guess,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  let  me  begin  with  the 
morning  I  left  you  in  Holburton,  four  years  ago  last 
June,  and  cotpe  down  to  the  present  time." 

When  he  hinted  that  he  knew  more  of  her  life  than 
she  supposed,  there  instantly  flashed  into  Josephine's 
mind  the  memory  of  all  the  love  affairs  she  had  been 
concerned  in,  and  the  improprieties  of  which  she  had 
been  guilty,  and  she  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that 
Everard  could  know  of  them,  too.  But  it  was  not,  and, 
assuming  a  calmness  she  was  far  from  feeling,  she  said  : 

"  Go  on,  I  am  all  attention." 

Very  rapidly,  Everard  went  over  with  the  events  of 
his  life  as  connected  with  her  up  to  the  time  of  his 
father's  death  and  his  own  disinheritance,  and  here  he 
paused  a  moment,  while  Josephine  said  : 

"And  so  it  was  through  me  you  lost  your  money.  I 
am  very  sorry,  and  I  must  say  I  think  it  mean  in  that 
girl  to  keep  it,  knowing  as  she  does  how  it  came  to  her." 

"You  misjudge  her,"  Everard  said,  quickly.  "You 
know  nothing  of  her,  or  how  she  rebelled  against  it  and 
tried  to  give  it  back  to  me.  But  she  cannot  do  it  while 
she  is  under  age,  and  I  would  not  take  it  if  she  could.  I 
made  her  believe  it  at  last,  and  then  counseled  with  Miss 
Bel  knap  as  to  my  future  course " 

"Miss  Belknap,  indeed!"  Josephine  exclaimed,  in- 
dignantly. "Don't  talk  to  me  of  Miss  Belknap,  the 
tricky,  deceitful  thing,  to  come  into  our  house,  knowing 
all  the  time  who  I  was,  and  yet  pretending  such  entire 
ignorance  of  everything.  How  I  hate  her,  and  you,  too, 
for  sending  her  there  as  a  spy  upon  my  actions." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  Everard  said.  "  Bee  was  no 
tale-bearer,  and  no  spy  upon  your  actions.  Neither  was 
she  sent  to  you,  for  I  did  not  know  she  was  there  till  she 


MR.   AND    MRS.   J.    E.    FORREST.  269 

wrote  me  to  that  effect.  She  had  the  best  of  motives 
in  going  to  your  mother's  house.  She  wished  to  see  you 
for  herself,  and, — pardon  me,  Josey,  if  I  speak  very 
plainly, — she  wished  to  find  all  the  good  there  was  in 
you,  so  as  to  know  better  how  to  befriend  you,  should 
you  need  it." 

"  Which,  thank  Heaven,  I  don't,  so  she  had  her 
trouble  for  her  pains,"  was  Josephine's  rejoinder,  of 
which  Everard  took  no  notice,  but  simply  went  on  : 

"  Beatrice  has  been  your  best  friend  from  the  mo- 
ment she  first  heard  of  you,  and  after  father's  death  she 
advised  me  to  go  straight  to  you  and  tell  you  the  whole 
truth,  and  offer  you  a  home  such  as  I  could  make  for 
you  myself, — in  short,  offer  you  poverty  and  protection 
as  my  acknowledged  wife." 

"  Strange  you  did  not  follow  her  advice,  with  your 
high  notions  of  morality,"  Josephine  said,  with  a  sneer  ; 
and  he  replied  : 

"  I  started  to  do  it  in  good  faith,  and  went  as  far  as 
Albany  without  a  thought  that  I  should  not  do  it,  but 
there  I  began  to  waver,  for  I  saw  you,  myself  unseen 
and  my  presence  unsuspected,  so  that  you  acted  and 
spoke  your  feelings  without  restraint. 

"Perhaps  you  can  recall  a  concert  or  opera  which  you 
attended  with  Doctor  Matthewson  as  your  escort,  and 
perhaps,  though  that  is  not  so  likely,  you  may  remember 
the  man  who  seemed  to  be  asleep  in  the  seat  behind  the 
one  you  took  when  you  entered  the  car,  talking  and 
laughing  so  loudly  that  you  drew  to  yourself  the  atten- 
tion of  all  the  passengers,  and  especially  the  young  man, 
who  listened  with  feelings  which  can  be  better  imagined 
than  described,  while  his  wife  made  light  of  him,  and 
allowed  attentions  and  liberties  such  as  no  pure-minded 
woman  would  for  a  moment  have  suffered  from  any  man, 
and  much  less  from  one  of  Dr.  Matthewson's  character. 
I  hardly  know  what  restrained  me  from  knocking  him 
down  and  publicly  denouncing  you,  but  shame  and  dis- 
gust kept  me  silent,  while  words  and  glances  which 
made  my  blood  boil  passed  between  you  two  until  you 
were  tired  out  and  laid  you  head  on  his  arm  as  readily 
as  you  would  have  rested  it  on  mine  had  I  sat  in  his 
place.  And  there  I  left  you  asleep,  and  I  have  never 
looked  upon  your  face  since  until  to-night,  when  I  found 


270  MR.   AND    MRS.   J.   E.    FORREST. 

you  at  Miss  Hastings'  door.  After  that  scene  in  the  car 
I  could  not  think  of  offering  to  share  my  poverty  wilh 
you.  We  were  better  apart,  and  I  made  a  vow  that 
never  for  an  hour  would  I  live  with  you  as  my  wife. 
The  thing  is  impossible;  but  because  I  dreaded  the  notori- 
ety of  an  open  rupture,  and  the  talk  and  scandal  sure 
to  follow  an  admission  of  the  marriage,  I  kept  quiet, 
trusting  to  chance  to  work  it  out  for  me  as  it  has  done 
at  last.  And  now  that  the  worst  has  come,  I  am  ready 
to  abide  by  it  and  am  willing  to  bear  the  blame  myself, 
if  that  will  help  you  any.  The  people  in  Rothsay  will 
undoubtedly  believe  you  the  injured  party,  and  I  shall 
let  them  do  so.  I  shall  say  nothing  to  your  detriment 
except  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  live  together.  I 
shall  support  you  just  as  I  have  done,  but  I  greatly  pre- 
fer that  it  should  be  in  Holburton,  rather  than  in  Roth- 
say.  It  is  the  onlv  favor  I  ask,  that  you  do  not  remain 
here." 

"  And  one  I  shall  not  grant,"  was  Josephine's  quick 
reply.  "  I  like  Rothsay,  so  far  as  I  have  seen  it,  and 
here  I  shall  stay.  Do  you  think  that  I  will  go  back  to 
Holburton,  and  bear  all  the  malicious  gossip  of  that 
gossipy  hole  ?  Never  !  I'll  die  first !  You  accuse  me 
of  being  fond  of  Dr.  Matthewson,  and  so  I  am,  and  I 
like  him  far  better  than  I  ever  liked  you,  for  he  is  a  gen- 
tleman, while  you  are  a  knave  and  a  hypocrite,  and  that 
girl  across  the  hall  is  as  bad  as  you  are  ; — I  hate  her, — I 
hate  you  both  !" 

She  was  standing  close  to  him  now,  her  face  livid 
with  rage,  while  the  blue  of  her  eyes  seemed  to  have 
faded  into  a  dull  white,  as  she  gave  vent  to  her  real 
feelings.  But  Everard  did  not  answer  her,  and  as  the 
dinner-bell  just  then  rang  for  the  third  time,  she  added 
sneeringly,  "If  you  are  through  with  your  abuse  I'll  end 
the  interview  by  asking  you  to  take  me  down  to  dinner. 
No?  You  do  not  wish  for  any  dinner?  Very  well,  I 
can  go  alone,  so  I  wish  you  good-evening,  advising  you 
not  to  fast  too  long.  It  is  not  good  for  you.  Possibly 
you  may  find  some  cracker  and  tea  in  Miss  Hastings' 
room,  with  which  to  refresh  the  inner  man." 

And  sweeping  him  a  mocking  courtesy  she  started  to 
leave  the  room,  but  at  the  door  she  met  her  sister,  and 
stopped  a  moment  while  she  said  : 


MR.    AND    MRS.    J.    E.    FORREST.  271 

"  Ah,  Agnes,  here  is  your  brother,  who,  I  hope,  will 
be  better  pleased  to  see  you  than  he  was  to  see  me.  If  I 
remember  rightly  you  were  always  his  favorite.  Au  re- 
voir"  and  kissing  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  Everard,  she 
left  the  room,  and  he  heard  her  warbling  snatches  of 
some  old  love  song  as  she  ran  lightly  down  the  stairs  to 
the  dining-room,  where  dinner  had  waited  nearly  an 
hour,  and  where  Aunt  Axie  stood  with  her  face  blacker 
than  its  wont,  giving  off  little  angry  snorts  as  she  re- 
moved one  after  another  the  covers  of  the  dishes,  and 
pronounced  the  contents  spoiled. 

"  Whar's  Mars'r  Everard  ?  Isn't  he  comin'  ?"  Aunt 
Axie  asked,  as  Josephine  showed  signs  of  commencing 
her  dinner  alone,  Mrs.  Markham,  who  ate  by  rule  and  on 
time,  having  had  tea  and  cold  chicken,  and  gone. 

"  Mr.  Forrest  has  lost  his  appetite  and  is  not  coming," 
Josephine  replied,  with  the  utmost  indifference,  and  as 
Agnes  just  then  appeared,  the  sisters  began  their  dinner 
alone. 

But  few  words  had  passed  between  Agnes  and  Ever- 
ard. She  had  taken  his  hand  in  hers  and  held  it  there 
while  she  looked  .-earchingly  in  his  face,  and  said: 

"  I  didn't  want  to  come,  but  she  would  have  it  so, 
and  I  thought  you  knew  and  had  sent  for  her.  Maybe  I 
can  persuade  her  to  go  back." 

"  No,  Aggie,  let  her  do  as  she  likes, — I  deserve  it  all. 
But  don't  feel  badly,  Aggie.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  at 
any  rate,  and  I  feel  better  because  you  are  here  ;  and 
now  go  to  the  dinner,  which  has  waited  so  long." 

Agnes  was  not  deceived  in  the  least,  and  her  heart 
was  very  heavy  as  she  went  down  to  the  dining-room 
and  took  her  seat  by  her  sister,  who  affected  to  be  so 
gay  and  happy,  and  who  tried  to  soften  old  Axie  by 
praising  everything  immoderately. 

But  Axie  was  not  deceived,  either.  She  knew  it  was 
not  all  well  between  the  young  couple,  and  as  soon  as  she 
had  sent  in  the  dessert,  she  started  up  stairs  in  quest  of  her 
boy,  finding  him  in  the  chamber  where  his  mother  had 
died,  and  kneeling  by  the  bed  in  such  an  abandonment 
of  grief  that,  without  waiting  to  consider  whether  she 
was  wanted  or  not,  she  went  softly  to  his  side,  and  lay- 
ing her  hard  old  hands  pityingly  on  his  bowed  head, 
spoke  to  him  lovingly  and  soothingly,  just  as  she  used  to 


272  MR.   AND    MRS.   J.   E.   FORREST. 

speak  to  him  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  sat  in  her 
broad  lap  to  be  comforted. 

"  Thar,  thar,  honey  ;  what  is  it  that  has  happened 
you?  Suffin  dreffle,  or  you  wouldn't  be  kneelin'  here  in 
de  cold  an'  dark,  wid  only  yer  mother's  sperrit  for  com- 
pany. What  is  it,  chile  ?  Can't  you  tell  old  Axie  ?  Is 
it  her  that's  a  vexin'  you  so?  Oh,  Mars'r  Everard,  how 
could  you  do  it  ?  Tell  old  Axie,  won't  you  ?" 

And  he  did  tell  her  how  the  marriage  occurred,  and 
when,  and  that  it  was  this  which  had  caused  the  trouble 
between  him  and  his  father.  He  said  nothing  against 
Josephine,  except  that  he  had  lived  to  see  and  regret  his 
mistake,  and  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  live  with 
her  as  his  wife.  And  Axie  took  his  side  at  once,  and 
replied  : 

"In  course  you  can't,  honey,  I  seen  that  the  fust 
thing.  She  hain't  like  you,  nor  Miss  Beatrice,  nor  Miss 
Rossie.  She's  pretty,  with  them  eyes  and  long  winkers, 
an'  she's  kind  of  teterin'  an'  soft  ;  but  can't  cheat  dis 
chile.  'Tain't  the  real  stuff  like  your  mother  was. 
Sposin'  I  go  and  paint  my  face  all  over  with  whitenin'. 
I  ain't  white  for  all  dat.  Thar's  nobody  but  ole  black 
nigger  under  de  whitewash,  for  bless  your  soul,  de  thick 
lips  and  de  wool  will  show,  an'  it's  just  de  same  with  no 
'count  white  folks.  But  don't  you  worry,  I'll  stan'  by 
you.  Course  you  can't  live  with  her.  I'll  make  a  fire 
an'  fetch  you  some  supper,  an'  you'll  feel  better  in  de 
mornin', — see  if  you  don't." 

But  Everard  asked  to  be  left  alone,  that  he  might 
think  it  out  and  decide  what  to  do.  He  could  not  go  to 
bed,  and  so  he  sat  the  entire  night  before  the  fire  in  the 
room  where  his  mother  had  died,  and  where  his  father 
had  denounced  him  so  angrily,  and  where  Rosamond 
had  come  to  him  and  asked  to  be  his  wife.  How  vividly 
that  last  scene  came  up  before  him,  and  he  could  almost 
see  the  little  girl  standing  there  again,  just  as  she  stood 
that  day,  which  seemed  to  him  years  and  years  ago. 
And  but  for  that  fatal  misstep  that  little  girl,  grown  to 
sweet  womanhood,  now  might  have  been  his.  Turn 
which  way  he  would,  there  was  no  help,  no  hope  ;  and 
the  future  loomed  up  before  him  dark  and  cheerless, 
with  always  this  burden  upon  him,  this  bar  to  the  happi- 
ness which  might  have  been  his  had  he  only  waited  for 


ROSAMOND'S    DECISION.  273 

it.  Surely,  if  his  sin  was  great,  his  punishment  was 
greater,  and  when  at  the  last  the  gray  morning  looked 
in  at  the  windows  of  his  room,  it  found  him  white,  and 
haggard,  and  worn,  with  no  definite  plan  as  to  his  future 
course,  except  the  firm  resolve  that  whatever  his  life 
might  be,  it  would  be  passed  apart  from  Josephine. 


CHAPTER  XXTtYI. 
ROSAMOND'S  DECISION. 

OSAMOND  had  sent  word  to  Everard  that  she 
would  see  him  after  breakfast,  and  he  went 
to  her  at  once,  finding  her  sitting  up  just  as 
she  was  the  previous  night,  but  much  paler, 
and  more  worn-looking,  as  if  she  had  not 
slept  in  months.  But  the  smile  with  which  she  greeted 
him  was  as  sweet  and  cordial  as  ever,  and  in  the  eyes 
which  she  fixed  so  steadily  upon  him  he  saw  neither 
hatred  nor  disgust,  but  an  expression  of  unutterable 
sorrow  and  pity  for  him,  and  for  herself,  too,  as  well. 
Rossie  was  not  one  to  conceal  her  feelings.  She  was 
too  much  a  child,  too  frank  and  ingenuous  for  that,  and 
there  was  a  great  and  bitter  pain  in  her  heart  which  she 
could  not  hide.  Everard  had  never  said  in  words  that 
he  loved  her,  but  she  had  accepted  it  as  a  fact,  and  when 
her  dream  was  so  rudely  dispelled  she  could  no  more 
conceal  her  disappointment  than  she  could  hide  the  rav- 
ages of  sickness  so  visible  upon  her  face. 

"  I've  been  thinking  it  all  over,"  she  began,  as  he  sat 
down  beside  her,  "and  though  my  opinion  may  not  be 
worth  much,  I  hope  you  will  consider  it,  at  least,  and 
give  it  some  thought  before  deciding  not  to  adopt  it." 

He  guessed  what  was  coming,  and  nerved  himself  to 
keep  quiet  while  she  went  on: 

"  Everard,  she  is  your  wife.  You  cannot  undo  that, 
except  in  one  way,  and  that  you  must  not  take,  for  it  is 
wicked  and  wrong.  You  loved  her  once.  You  say  you 
were  quite  as  much  to  blame  for  the  marriage  as  she, 
and  you  know  you  have  been  wrong  in  keeping  it  a  secret 

12* 


274  R08AMON&S    DECISION. 

so  long.  She  has  just  cause  for  complaint,  and  I  want 
you  to  try  to  love  her  again.  You  must  support  her,  and 
it  will  be  so  much  better,  and  save  so  much  talk  and  gos- 
sip if  you  live  in  the  same  house  with  her, — in  this  house, 
your  rightful  home." 

"Never,  Rossie  !"  he  exclaimed,  vehemently,  "never 
can  I  make  her  really  ray  wife,  feeling  as  I  do.  It  would 
be  a  sin,  and  a  mockery,  and  I  shall  not  do  it.  You  say 
I  loved  her  once  ;  perhaps  I  did,  though  it  seems  to  me 
now  like  a  child's  fancy  for  some  forbidden  dainty, 
which,  if  obtained,  cloys  on  the  stomach  and  sickens  one 
ever  after.  No,  Rossie,  you  talk  in  vain  when  you  ask 
me  to  live  with  Josephine  as  my  wife,  or  even  live  with 
her  at  all.  The  same  roof  cannot  shelter  us  both.  Sup- 
port her  I  shall,  but  live  with  her,  never  !  and  I  am  pre- 
pared for  all  the  people  will  say  against  me.  If  I  have 
your  respect  and  sympathy  I  can  defy  the  world,  though 
the  future  looks  very  dreary  to  me." 

His  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke,  and  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  as  if  he,  too,  were  faint  and  sick,  while  Ros- 
sie continued  : 

"  Then,  if  you  will  not  live  with  her  under  any  circum- 
stances, this  is  my  next  best  plan.  Forrest  House  is  her 
natural  home,  and  she  must  stay  here,  whatever  you  mav 
do." 

"  Here,  Rossie  !  Here  with  you  !  Are  you  crazy  ?" 
Everard  exclaimed,  and  Rosamond  replied  : 

"I  am  going  away.  I  have  thought  it  all  over,  and 
talked  with  Mrs.  Markham.  She  has  a  friend  in  St. 
Louis  who  is  wanting  a  governess  for  her  three  children, 
and  she  is  going  to  write  to-day  and  propose  me,  and  if 
the  lady  consents,  I, — I  am  going  away." 

Rossie  finished  the  sentence  with  a  long-drawn 
breath,  which  sounded  like  a  sob,  for  this  going  away 
from  all  she  loved  best  was  as  hard  for  her  as  for  Ever- 
ard, who  felt  suddenly  as  if  every  ray  of  sunlight  had 
been  stricken  from  his  life.  With  Rossie  gone  the  world 
would  be  dark  indeed,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  used 
all  his  powers  of  eloquence  to  dissuade  her  from  the 
plan,  but  she  was  quite  resolved,  and  he  understood  it  at 
last,  and  answered  her: 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right  ;  but  Heaven  pity  me  when 
you  are  gone  !" 


ROSAMOND'S    DECISION.  275 

For  a  moment  Rosamond  was  silent,  and  then  she 
said,  in  her  usual  frank  way: 

"  Yes,  Everard,  I  understand,  or  I  think  I  do,  and  it 
would  be  foolish  in  me  to  pretend  not  to  know, — to  be- 
lieve,^— I  mean,"  and  the  bright  color  began  to  mount  to 
Rossie's  cheeks  as  she  went  on:  "I  mean  that  I  be- 
lieve you  do  care  for  me  some, — that  if  I  were  dead  you 
would  remember  me  longer  than  any  one  else.  I  guess 
you  like  me  a  little,  don't  you,  Everard  ?" 

It  was  the  child  Rossie, — the  little  girl  of  his  boy- 
hood,— who  spoke  with  all  her  old  simple-heartedness  of 
manner,  but  the  face  which  looked  up  at  the  young  man 
was  not  the  face  of  a  child,  for  there  was  written  on  it 
all  a  woman's  first  tenderness  and  love,  and  the  dark 
eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  the  parted  lips  quivered  even 
after  she  ceased  to  speak,  and  sat  looking  at  him  as  fear- 
lessly and  as  little  abashed  as  she  had  looked  at  him 
when  she  asked  to  be  his  wife.  And  how  could  he 
answer  that  question  so  innocently  put?  "You  do  like 
me  a  little,  don't  you,  Everard  ?"  How,  but  to  stoop  and 
kiss  the  quivering  lips  which  kissed  him  back  again 
unhesitatingly,  but  when  he  sought  to  wind  his  arms 
around  her,  and  hold  her  closely  to  him,  she  motioned 
him  away,  and  said  :  "  No,  Everard,  you  might  kiss  me 
once,  and  I  might  kiss  you  back,  as  we  would  do  if  either 
of  us  were  dying,  and  it  was  our  farewell  to  each  other, 
as  this  is.  I  can  never  kiss  you  again,  never;  nor  you 
me,  nor  say  anything  like  what  we  have  been  saying. 
Remember  that,  Everard.  The  might  have  been  is  past, 
and  when  we  meet,  as  we  sometimes  may,  it  will  be  on 
the  old  footing,  as  guardian  and  ward,  or  brother  and 
sister,  if  you  like  that  better.  And  now  listen,  while  I 
finish  telling  you  what  my  wishes  are  with  regard  to  the 
future." 

Rosamond's  was  the  stronger  spirit  then,  and  she 
compelled  him  to  sit  quietly  by  and  hear  her  while  she 
planned  the  future  for  him.  Josephine  was  to  live  at 
Forrest  House,  and  to  receive  a  certain  amount  of  in- 
come over  and  above  the  support  which  he  would  give 
her.  But  to  this  last  he  stoutly  objected.  Not  one  dol- 
lar of  Rossie's  money  should  ever  find  its  way  to  her,  he 
said.  He  could  support  her  with  his  profession,  and  if 
Rossie  did  not  choose  to  use  what  was  rightly  her  own  it 


276  ROSAMONDS    DECISION. 

would  simply  accumulate  on  her  hands,  without  doing 
good  to  any  one. 

So  Rossie  gave  that  project  up,  but  insisted  that  she 
should  vacate  the  house  as  soon  as  she  was  able,  and 
leave  Josephine  in  possession,  and  Everard  was  commis- 
sioned to  tell  her  so,  and  to  say  that  she  must  excuse 
Miss  Hastings  from  seeing  her  until  she  was  stronger, 
and  that  she  must  feel  perfectly  at  home,  and  free  to 
ask  for  whatever  she  liked. 

At  first  Josie  listened  incredulously  to  Everard  ;  it 
seemed  so  improbable  that  Rossie  would  deliberately 
abandon  her  handsome  home,  and  give  it  up  to  her. 
But  he  succeeded  in  making  her  understand  it  at  last, 
taking  great  care  to  let  her  know  that  she  was  to  have 
nothing  from  the  Forrest  estate  except  the  rent  of  the 
house  ;  that  for  everything  else  she  was  dependent  upon 
him,  who  could  give  her  a  comfortable  support,  but 
allow  nothing  like  luxury  or  extravagance. 

To  this  Josephine  assented,  and  was  gracious  enough 
to  say  that  it  was  very  kind  and  generous  in  Miss  Hast- 
ings, and  to  express  a  wish  that  she  might  see  her  and 
thank  her. in  person.  But  to  this  Everard  gave  no  en- 
couragement. Miss  Hastings  was  very  weak,  he  said, 
and  had  already  been  too  much  excited,  and  needed  per- 
fect quiet  for  the  present.  Of  course,  so  long  as  she  re- 
mained there  she  would  be  mistress  of  the  house,  and 
Josephine  her  guest.  For  himself,  he  should  return  to 
his  old  quarters  in  town,  and  only  come  to  the  house 
when  it  was  necessary  to  do  so  on  business.  If  Jose- 
phine was  needing  money,  he  had  fifty  dollars  which  he 
could  give  her  now,  and  more  would  be  forthcoming 
when  that  was  gone. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  formal  than  this  inter- 
view between  the  husband  and  wife,  and  after  it  was 
over  Josephine  sat  down  to  write  to  Mrs.  Arnold  in. 
Europe,  while  Everard  went  boldly  out  to  face  the  world 
waiting  so  eagerly  for  him. 


MATTERS    ARE    ADJUSTED.  277 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

MATTERS    ARE    ADJUSTED. 

F  Josephine  had  not  known  herself  to  be  worse 
even  than  Everard  had  charged  her  with 
being,  she  might  not  have  submitted  so 
quietly  to  the  line  of  conduct  he  proposed  to 
pursue  toward  her,  but  the  consciousness  of 
misdeeds,  known  only  to  herself,  made  her  manageable, 
and  willing  to  accept  the  conditions  offered  her.  Had 
Rosamond  been  allowed  to  give  her  a  part  of  her  income 
she  would  have  taken  it  as  something  due  to  her,  but  as 
that  was  forbidden  she  was  well  satisfied  with  the  house 
and  its  surroundings,  and  the  support  her  husband  could 
give  her.  To  return  to  Holburton,  after  having  an- 
nounced publicly  that  she  was  going  to  her  husband, 
would  have  been  a  terrible  mortification,  and  something 
which  she  declared  to  herself  she  would  never  have  done, 
and  so  she  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  the  situation  in 
Rothsay.  To  stand  well  with  the  people  in  town  was 
her  great  object  now,  and  to  that  end  every  art  and 
grace  of  which  she  was  capable  was  brought  into  requi- 
sition, and  so  well  did  she  play  her  part  that  a  few  of 
the  short-sighted  ones,  with  Mrs.  Dr.  Rider  at  their  head, 
espoused  her  cause  and  looked  askance  at  Everard,  who 
kept;  his  own  counsel,  with  the  single  exception  of  Law- 
yer Russell,  to  whom  he  told  his  story,  and  who  assumed 
such  an  air  of  reserve  and  dignity  that  not  even  his  most 
intimate  friends  dared  approach  him  on  the  subject 
which  was  interesting  every  one  so  much. 

Everard  knew  that  he  was  an  object -of  suspicion  and 
gossip,  but  cared  little  or  nothing  for  it,  so  absorbed  was 
he  in  his  own  trouble,  and  in  watching  the  progress  of 
affairs  at  the  Forrest  House,  where  Josephine  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  the  mistress,  issuing  her  orders  and 
expressing  her  opinions  and  wishes  with  far  more  free- 
dom than  Rossie  had  ever  done.  She,  too,  was  very  re- 
ticent with  regard  to  her  husband,  and  when  Mrs.  Dr. 
Rider  asked  in  a  roundabout  way  what  was  the  matter, 
siie  replied,  in  a  trembling  voice  : 


278  MATTERS    ARE    ADJUSTED. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  except  he  grew  tired  of  me  dur- 
ing the  years  we  were  separated  ;  but  please  don't  talk 
to  me  about  it,  or  let  any  one  else,  for  I  cannot  speak  of 
it, — it  makes  me  so  sick." 

She  did  act  as  if  she  were  going  to  faint,  and  Mrs. 
Rider  opened  the  window  and  let  in  the  cool  air,  and 
told  Josephine  to  lean  on  her  till  she  was  better,  and 
then  reported  the  particulars  of  her  interview  so  graph- 
ically and  well  that  after  a  day  or  so  everybody  had 
heard  that  poor  Mrs.  Forrest,  when  asked  as  to  the  cause 
of  the  estrangement  between  herself  and  husband,  had 
at  once  gone  into  hysterics  and  fainted  dead  away.  Of 
course  the  curious  ones  were  more  curious  than  ever, 
and  tried  old  Axie  next,  but  she  was  wholly  non-com- 
mittal, and  bade  them  mind  their  business  and  let  their 
betters  alone. 

Rosamond  was  now  the  last  hope,  but  she  had  nothing 
to  say  whatever,  except  that  under  the  circumstances  she 
felt  that  Mrs.  Forrest  at  least  ought  to  live  at  her  hus- 
band's old  home,  and  that  arrangements  to  that  effect 
had  been  made.  As  for  herself,  it  had  been  her  inten- 
tion to  teach  for  a  long  time,  and  as  Mrs.  Markham  de- 
clared her  competent,  she  was  going  to  try  it,  and  leave 
the  place  to  Mrs.  Forrest.  Nothing  could  be  learned 
from  Rossie,  who  was  too  great  a  favorite  with  everyone 
to  become  a  subject  of  gossip  ;  and  whatever  might  be 
the  cause  of  the  trouble  between  Everard  and  Josey,  her 
spotless,  innocent  life  was  too  well  known  for  any  cen- 
sure to  fall  on  her,  and  Josephine  could  not  have  reached 
her  by  so  much  as  a  breath  of  calumny,  had  she  chosen 
to  try,  which  she  did  not.  With  her  quick  intuition  she 
understood  at  once  how  immensely  popular  Rossie  was, 
and  resolving  to  be  friends  with  her,  if  possible,  she 
waited  anxiously  for  a  personal  interview,  which  was  ac- 
corded her  at  last,  and  the  two  met  in  Rossie's  room, 
where,  in  her  character  as  invalid,  Rossie  sat  in  her  easy- 
chair,  with  her  beautiful  hair  brushed  back  from  her 
pure,  pale  face,  and  her  great,  black  eyes  unusually  bril- 
liant with  excitement  and  expectation. 

Josephine,  too,  had  been  almost  as  nervous  with  regard 
to  this  interview  as  Rosamond  herself,  and  had  spent  an 
hour  over  her  toilet,  which  was  perfect  in  all  its  details, 


MATTERS    ARE    ADJUSTED.  279 

from  the  arrangement  of  her  hair  to  her  little  high-heeled 
slippers  with  the  fanciful  rosettes. 

Rosamond  was  prepared  for  something  very  pretty, 
but  not  as  beautiful  as  the  woman  who  came  half  hesi- 
tatingly, half  eagerly,  iiito  the  room,  and  stood  before 
her  with  such  a  bright,  winning  smile  upon  her  lovely 
face  that  it  was  hard  to  believe  there  was  guile  or  artful- 
ness there.  Rising  to  her  feet  Rossie  offered  her  hand 
to  her  visitor,  who  took  it  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
while  she  said  something  about  the  great  happiness  it 
was  to  see  one  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much. 

"  Why,  I  used  actually  to  be  half  jealous  of  the  Ros- 
sie Everard  was  always  talking  about,"  she  said,  refer- 
ring to  the  past  as  easily  and  naturally  as  if  no  cloud  had 
ever  darkened  her  horizon,  or  come  between  her  and  the 
Everard  who  had  talked  so  much  of  Rossie. 

When  Josephine  first  entered  the  room  Rossie  was 
very  pale,  but  at  this  allusion  to  herself  and  Everard 
there  came  a  flush  to  her  cheeks  and  a  li^ht  to  her  eye 
which  made  Josepnine  change  her  mind  with  regard  to 
her  personal  appearance. 

"  Nobody  can  ever  call  her  a  beauty,"  she  had  said  to 
herself  at  first,  but  as  the  interview  progressed,  and 
Rossie  grew  interested  and  earnest,  Josephine  looked 
wonderingly  at  her  glowing  face  and  large  black  eyes, 
which  flashed  and  shone  like  stars,  and  almost  bewildered 
and  confused  her  with  their  brightness,  and  the  way  they 
had  of  looking  straight  at  her,  as  if  to  read  her  inmost 
thoughts. 

It  was  impossible  to  suspect  Rossie  of  acting  or  say- 
ing anything  she  did  not  mean,  for  her  face  was  like  a 
clear,  faithful  mirror,  and  after  a  little  Josephine  began 
to  grow  ill  at  ease  in  her  presence.  The  bright  black 
eyes  troubled  her  a  little  when  fixed  so  earnestly  upon 
her,  and  she  found  herself  wondering  if  they  could  pene- 
trate her  inmost  thoughts,  and  see  just  what  she  was.  It 
was  a  singular  effect  which  Rossie  had  upon  this  woman, 
whose  character  was  one  web  of  falsehoods  and  deceit, 
and  who,  in  the  presence  of  so  much  purity  and  inno- 
cence, and  apparent  trust  in  everybody,  was  conscious  of 
some  new  impulse  within  her,  prompting  her  to  a  better 
and  sincerer  life.  Wondering  how  much  Rossie  knew  of 
her  antecedents,  she  suddenly  burst  out  with: 


280  MATTERS    ARE    ADJUSTED. 

"Miss  Hastings,  or  Rossie, — I  so  much  wish  you'd  let 
me  call  you  by  the  name  I  have  heard  so  often.  I  want 
to  tell  you  at  once  how  I  have  hated  myself  for  taking 
that  money,  the  price  of  your  lovely  hair,  and  letting 
you  believe  I  was  a  dreadful  gambler,  seeking  Everard's 
ruin." 

She  had  her  hand  on  the  "lovely  hair,"  and  was  pass- 
ing her  white  fingers  through  it  and  letting  it  fall  in 
curling  masses  about  Rossie's  neck  and  shoulders,  as  she 
went  on  : 

"  It  was  such  a  funny  mistake  you  made  with  regard 
to  me,  and  it  was  wrong  in  me  to  take  the  money.  I 
would  not  do  it  now  ;  but  we  were  so  poor,  and  I  needed 
it  so  much,  and  Everard  could  not  get  it.  Has  he  told 
you  all  about  those  times,  I  wonder,  when  we  were  first 
married,  and  he  did  love  me  a  little." 

"  He  has  told  me  a  good  deal,"  was  Rossie's  straight- 
forward answer  ;  and  sitting  down  upon  a  stool  in  front 
of  her  Josey  assumed  the  attitude  and  manner  of  a  child 
as  she  went  on  to  speak  of  the  past,  and  to  beg  Rossie 
to  think  as  leniently  of  her  as  possible. 

"Men  are  not  always  correct  judges  of  women's 
actions,"  she  said,  "  and  I  do  not  think  Everard  under- 
stands me  at  all.  Our  marriage  in  that  hasty  manner 
was  unwise,  but  if  I  erred  I  surely  have  paid  the  severest 
penalty.  Such  things  fall  more  heavily  upon  women 
than  upon  men,  and  I  dare  say  you  think  better  of 
Everard  this  moment  than  you  do  of  me." 

Rossie  could  not  say  she  didn't,  for  there  was  some- 
thing in  Josephine's  manner  which  she  did  not  like. 
It  seemed  to  be  all  acting,  and  to  one  who  never  acted 
a  part,  it  was  very  distasteful.  But  she  tried  to  evade 
the  direct  question  by  answering:  "I  have  known  Ever- 
ard so  long  that  I  must  of  course  think  better  of  him 
than  of  a  stranger.  He  has  been  so  kind  to  me  ;"  then, 
wishing  to  turn  the  conversation  into  a  channel  where 
she  felt  she  should  be  safer,  she  plunged  at  once  into  her 
plan  of  leaving  the  house  to  Josephine,  saying  that  she 
had  never  thought  it  right  for  her  to  have  it,  and  speak- 
ing of  the  judge's  last  illness,  when  she  was  certain  he 
repented  of  what  he  had  done. 

At  first  Josephine  made  a  very  pretty  show  of  pro- 
testing against  it. 


MATTERS    ARE    ADJUSTED.  281 

"It  is  your  own  home,"  she  said,  "and  though  I  ap- 
preciate your  great  kindness,  I  cannot  feel  that  it  is 
right  to  take  it  from  you." 

"But  I  thought  you  understood  that  it  was  quite  a 
settled  thing  that  I  am  to  go  away,  as  I  have  always  in- 
tended doing.  Everard  told  you  so.  Surely  he  ex- 
plained it  to  you,"  Rossie  said,  in  some  surprise. 

Josephine  did  not  quite  know  how  to  deal  with  a  na- 
ture like  Rossie's,  but  she  guessed  that  for  once  it  would 
be  necessary  for  her  to  say  very  nearly  what  she  thought, 
and  so  for  a  few  moments  the  two  talked  together  earn- 
estly and  soberly  of  the  future,  when  Rossie  would  be 
gone  and  Josephine  left  in  charge. 

"  You  will  only  be  taking  what  is  yours  a  little  in  ad- 
vance," Rossie  said,  "  for  when  I  am  of  age  I  shall  deed 
it  back  to  Everard  ;  and  then,  on  the  principle  that  what 
is  a  man's  is  also  his  wife's,  it  will  be  yours,  and  I  hope 
that  long  before  that  it  will  be  well  with  you  and 
Everard  ;  that  the  misunderstanding  between  you  will  be 
cleared  up  ;  that  he  will  do  right,  and  if, — if, — you  are  con- 
scious of  any  defect  in  your  character  which  annoys  him, 
you  will  overcome  it  and  try  to  be  what  he  would  like 
his  wife  to  be,  for  you  might  be  so  happy  with  him,  if 
only  you  loved  each  other." 

The  great  black  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  Rossie's 
face  twitched  painfully  aa  she  compelled  herself  to  make 
this  effort  in  Everard's  behalf.  But  it  was  lost  on  Jose- 
phine, who,  thoroughly  deceitful  and  treacherous  herself, 
could  not  believe  that  this  young  girl  really  meant  what 
she  said;  it  was  a  piece  of  acting  to  cover  her  real  feel- 
ing, but  she  affected  to  be  touched,  and  wiped  her  own 
eyes,  and  said  despondingly  that  the  time  was  past,  she 
feared,  the  opportunity  lost  for  her  to  regain  her  hus- 
band. He  did  not  care  for  her  any  longer;  his  love  was 
given  to  another,  and  she  looked  straight  at  Rossie,  who 
neither  spoke  nor  made  a  sign  that  she  heard  or  under- 
stood, but  she  looked  so  very  white  and  tired  that  Jose- 
phine arose  to  go,  after  thanking  her  again  for  her  kind- 
ness and  generosity,  and  assuring  her  that  everything 
about  the  house  should  be  kept  just  as  she  left  it,  and 
that  in  case  she  changed  her  mind  after  trying  the  life 
of  a  governess,  and  wished  to  return,  she  must  do  so 
without  any  reference  to  her  convenience  or  pleasure. 


282  MATTERS    ARE    ADJUSTED. 

And  so  the  interview  ended,  and  Josephine  went 
back  to  her  room  and  Agnes,  to  whom  she  said  that  she 
had  found  Miss  Hastings  rather  pretty,  and  that  she 
was  on  the  whole  a  nice  little  body,  and  had  acted  very 
well  about  the  house,  "though,"  she  added: 

"  I  consider  it  quite  as  much  mine  as  hers.  That  old 
man  was  crazy,  or  he  would  never  have  left  everything 
to  her,  and  he  tried  afterward  to  take  it  back,  it  seems, 
and  right  the  wrong  he  had  done.  She  told  me  all  about 
it,  and  how  his  eyes  followed  her,  and  shut  and  opened 
as  she  talked  to  him.  It  made  me  so  nervous  to  think  of 
those  eyes  ;  I  believe  they  will  haunt  me  forever.  And 
Everard  never  told  me  that,  but  let  me  believe  his  father 
died  just  as  angry  with  him  as  ever.  I  tell  you,  Agnes, 
I  am  beginning  to  hate  that  man  quite  as  much  as  he 
hates  me,  and  if  I  were  sure  of  as  comfortable  a  living 
and  as  good  a  position  elsewhere  as  he  can  give  me  here, 
I'd  sue  for  a  divorce  to-morrow,  and  get  it,  too,  and 
then, — (  away,  away,  to  my  love  who  is  over  the  sea.'  " 

She  sang  the  last  words  in  a  light,  flippant  tone, 
and  then  sat  down  to  write  to  Dr.  Matthewson,  whose 
last  letter,  received  before  she  left  Europe,  was  still 
unanswered. 

Three  weeks  after  this  interview  Rosamond  left  Roth- 
say  for  St.  Louis,  where  she  was  to  be  governess  to 
Mrs.  Andrews'  children  on  a  salary  of  three  hundred 
dollars  a  year.  Everard  and  Josephine  both  went  to 
the  depot  to  see  her  off,  the  one  driving  down  in  the 
carriage  with  her,  and  making  a  great  show  of  regret 
and  sorrow,  the  other  walking  over  from  his  office,  and 
maintaining  the  utmost  reserve  and  apparent  indiffer- 
ence, as  if  the  parting  were  nothing  to  him;  but  at  the 
last,  when  he  stood  with  Rossie's  hand  in  his,  there  came 
a  look  of  anguish  into  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  were  deathly 
white  as  he  said  good-by,  and  knew  that  all  which  made 
life  bearable  to  him  was  leaving  him,  forever. 


"  WAITING    AND     WATCHING    FOR    ME."    283 
CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

"  WAITING   AND  WATCHING  FOE  ME." 


T  was  the  first  of  January  when  Rossie  left 
Rothsay  for  St.  Louis,  and  three  weeks  from 
that  day  a  wild  storm  was  sweeping  over  the 
hills  of  Vermont,  and  great  clouds  of  sleet 
and  snow  went  drifting  down  into  the  open 
grave  in  Bronson  church-yard,  toward  which  a  little 
group  of  mourners  was  slowly  wending  its  way.  Nei- 
ther Florida  skies  nor  Florida  air  had  availed  to  restore 
life  and  health  to  poor  wasted,  worn-out  Mollie  Morton, 
although  at  first  she  seemed  much  better,  and  Trix 
and  Bunchie,  in  their  childish  way,  thanked  God,  who 
was  making  their  mamma  well,  while  the  Rev.  Theo- 
dore, in  Boston,  felt  something  like  new  hope  within  him 
at  the  cheerful  letters  Mollie  wrote  of  what  Florida  was 
doing  for  her.  But  the  improvement  was  only  tempo- 
rary, and  neither  orange  blossoms  or  southern  sunshine 
could  hold  the  spirit  which  longed  so  to  be  free,  and 
which  welcomed  death  without  a  shadow  of  fear. 

"  I  have  had  much  to  make  me  happy,"  Mollie  said 
to  Beatrice,  one  day,  when  that  faithful  friend  sat  by  her 
holding  the  tired  head  upon  her  bosom,  and  gently 
smoothing  the  once  black  hair,  which  now  was  more 
than  three-fourths  gray,  though  Mollie  was  only  thirty- 
one.  "  Two  lovely  children,  and  the  kindest,  best  hus- 
band in  the  world, — the  man  I  loved  and  wanted  so 
much,  and  who  I  think,  likes  me,  and  will  miss  me  some 
when  I  am  gone  forever." 

This  she  said,  looking  straight  at  Beatrice,  whose  face 
was  very  pale  as  she  stooped  to  kiss  the  white  forehead 
and  answered: 

"  I  am  sure  he  will  miss  you,  and  so  shall  I,  for  I  have 
learned  to  love  you  so  much,  and  shall  be  so  sorry  when 
you  are  gone." 

"  Truly,  truly,  will  you  be  sorry  when  I  am  dead  ?  I 
hardly  thought  anybody  would  be  that  but  father  and 
mother,  and  the  children,"  Mollie  said,  while  the  lips 


284     "  WAITING    AND     WATCHING    FOR    ME." 

quivered  and  the  great  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  as 
she  continued  :  "  We  are  alone  now,  for  the  last  time  it 
may  be,  and  I  want  to  say  to  you  what  has  been  in  my 
heart  to  say,  and  what  I  must  say  before  I  die.  When  I 
was  up  in  that  dreary  back  room  in  New  York,  so  sick, 
and  forlorn,  and  poor,  and  you  came  to  me,  bright,  and 
gay,  and  beautiful,  I  did  not  like  it  at  all,  and  for  a  time 
I  felt  hard  toward  you  and  angry  at  Theodore,  who,  I 
knew,  must  see  the  difference  between  me, — faded,  and 
plain,  and  sickly,  and  old  before  my  time,  and  you,  the 
woman  he  loved  first, — fresh,  and  young,  and  full  of  life, 
and  health,  and  beauty.  How  you  did  seem  to  fill  the 
dingy  room  with  brightness  and  beauty,  and  what  a  con- 
trast you  were  to  me;  and  Theodore  saw  it,  too,  when  he 
came  in  and  found  you  there.  But  if  there  was  a  regret 
in  his  heart, — a  sigh  for  what  ought  to  have  been,  he 
never  let  it  appear,  but  after  you  were  gone,  and  only 
the  delicate  perfume  of  your  garments  lingered  in  the 
room,  he  came  and  sat  by  me  and  held  my  thin,  hard 
hands,  so  unlike  your  soft  white  ones,  and  tried  by  his 
manner  to  make  me  believe  he  was  not  sorry,  and  when 
I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  said  to  him:  'I  am  not 
much  like  her,  Theo,  am  I  ?'  he  guessed  what  was  in  my 
mind,  and  answered  me  so  cheerily,  '  No,  Mollie,  not 
a  bit  like  her.  And  how  can  you  be,  when  your  lives 
have  been  so  different;  hers  all  sunshine,  and  yours  full 
of  care,  and  toil,  and  pain.  But  you  have  borne  it 
bravely,  Mollie;  better,  I  think,  than  Bee  would  have 
done.'  He  called  you  Bee  to  me  for  the  first  time,  and 
there  was  something  in  his  voice,  as  he  spoke  the  name, 
which  told  me  how  dear  you  had  been  to  him  once,  if, 
indeed,  you  were  not  then.  But  he  was  so  good,  and 
kind,  and  tender  toward  me  that  I  felt  the  jealousy 
giving  way,  though  there  was  a  little  hardness  left 
toward  you,  and  that  night  after  Theo  was  sleeping 
beside  me  I  prayed  and  prayed  that  God  would  take  it 
away,  and  He  did,  and  I  came  at  last  to  know  you  as  you 
are,  the  dearest,  noblest,  most  unselfish  woman  the  world 


ever  saw." 


"  No,  no,  you  must  not  say  that.  I  am  not  good  or 
unselfish;  you  don't  know  me,"  Bee  cried,  thinking  re- 
morsefully of  the  times  when  she  had  ridiculed  the  brown 
alpaca  dress  and  the  woman  who  wore  it,  and  how  often 


"  WAITING    AND     WATCHING    FOR    ME."    285 

she  had  tired  of  her  society,  in  which  she  really  found  no 
pleasure,  such  as  she  might  have  found  elsewhere. 

But  she  could  not  wound  her  by  telling  her  this. 
She  could  only  protest  that  she  was  not  all  Mrs.  Morton 
believed  her  to  be.  But  Mollie  would  not  listen. 

"  You  must  be  good,"  she  said,  "  or  you  would  never 
have  left  your  beautiful  home  and  your  friends  and 
attached  yourself  to  me,  who  am  only  a  drag  upon  you. 
But  sometime  in  the  future  you  will  be  rewarded  ;  and, 
forgive  me,  Miss  Belknap,  if  I  speak  out  plain,  now,  like 
one  who  stands  close  down  to  the  river  of  death,  and, 
looking  back,  can  see  what  probably  will  be.  I  do  not 
know  how  you  feel  toward  Theo,  but  of  this  I  am  sure, 
he  has  never  taken  another  into  the  place  you  once  filled, 
and  at  a  suitable  time  after  I  am  gone  he  will  repeat  the 
words  he  said  to  you  years  ago,  and  if  he  does,  don't 
send  him  away  a  second  time.  He  is  nearer  to  your 
standard  now  than  he  was  then.  He  is  growing  all  the 
time  in  the  estimation  of  his  fellow-men.  They  are 
going  to  make  him  a  D.  D.,  and  the  parish  of  which  he 
is  pastor  is  one  of  the  best  and  most  highly  cultivated  in 
Boston.  And  you  will  go  there,  I  hope,  and  be  a  mother 
to  my  children,  and  bring  them  up  like  you,  for  that  will 
please  Theo  better  than  my  homely  ways.  Trix  is  like 
you  now,  and  Bunchie  will  learn,  though  she  is  slower  to 
imitate.  You  will  be  happy  with  Theo, — and  I  am  glad  for 
him  and  the  children  ;  but  you  will  not  let  them  forget 
me  quite,  but  will  tell  them  sometimes  of  their  mother, 
who  loved  them  so  much.  I  hoped  to  see  Theo  once 
more  before  I  died,  but  something  tells  me  he  will  not 
be  here  in  time  ;  that  when  he  comes  I  shall  be  dead. 
So  you  will  ask  him  to  forget  the  many  times  I  worried 
and  fretted  him  with  my  petty  cares  and  troubles.  Tell 
him  that  Mollie  puts  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  lays 
her  poor  head,  which  will  never  ache  again,  against  his 
good,  kind  heart,  and  so  bids  him  good-by,  and  goes 
away  alone  into  the  brightness  beyond,  for  it  is  all  bright 
and  peaceful  ;  and  just  over  the  river  I  am  crossing  I 
seem  to  see  the  distant  towers  of  '  Jerusalem  the  Golden ' 
gleaming  in  the  heavenly  sunshine,  which  lies  so  warm 
upon  the  everlasting  hills.  And  my  babies  are  there  wait- 
ing and  watching  for  me.  Sin<r,  can't  you,  *  Will  some  one 
be  at  the  beautiful  gate,  waiting  and  watching  for  me  ?' " 


286     "  WAITING    AND     WATCHING    FOR    ME." 

There  was  too  heavy  a  sorrow  in  Beatrice's  heart, 
and  her  voice  was  too  full  of  tears  for  her  to  sing  to 
the  dying  woman,  who  clung  so  closely  to  her.  But 
what  she  could  not  do,  little  Trixey  did  for  her.  She 
had  entered  the  room  unobserved,  followed  by  Bunchie, 
whose  hands  were  full  of  the  sweet  wild-flowers  they 
had  gathered  and  brought  to  their  mother,  who  was 
past  caring  for  such  things  now.  The  yellow  jessamine 
and  wild  honeysuckle  lay  unheeded  upon  her  pillow, 
but  at  the  sound  of  her  children's  voices  a  spasm  of 
intense  pain  passed  for  a  moment  over  her  face,  and  was 
succeeded  by  a  smile  of  peace  as  she  whispered  again  : 
"Somebody  sing  of  the  beautiful  gate,"  and  instantly 
Trixey's  clear  voice  rang  through  the  room,  mingled 
with  little  Bunchie's  lisping,  broken  notes,  as  she,  too, 
struck  in  and  sang  : 

"  Will  any  one  be  at  the  beautiful  gate, 
Waiting  and  watching  for  me  ?" 

Dear  little  ones,  they  did  not  know  their  mother  was 
dying;  but  Beatrice  did,  and  her  tears  fell  like  rain  upon 
the  pinched,  white  face  pillowed  on  her  arm,  as  she 
kissed  the  quivering  lips,  which  whispered  softly: 

"  Darling  Trix  and  Bunchie, — God  bless  them  ! — and 
tell  Theo  Mollie  will  be  at  the  beautiful  gate,  waiting 
and  watching  for  him,  and  for  you  all, — waiting  and 
watching  as  they  now  wait  and  watch  for  me  over  there, 
the  shining  ones,  crowding  on  the  shore,  and  some  are 
there  to  whom  I  first  told  the  story  of  Jesus  in  the  far-off 
heathen  land.  Tell  Theo  they  are  there,  and  many  whom 
he  led  to  the  Saviour.  It  is  no  delusion,  as  some  have 
thought.  I  see  them,  I  see  into  Heaven,  and  it  is  so 
near;  it  lies  right  side  by  side  with  this  world,  only  a 
step  between." 

Her  mind  was  wandering  a  little,  for  her  words 
became  indistinct,  until  her  voice  ceased  altogether,  and 
Beatrice  watched  her  as  the  last  great  struggle  went  on 
and  the  soul  parted  from  the  body,  which  was  occasion- 
ally convulsed  with  pain,  as  if  it  were  hard  to  sever  the 
tie  which  bound  together  the  mortal  and  immortal. 

At  last,  just  as  the  beautiful  southern  sunset  flooded 
the  river  and  the  fields  beyond  with  golden  and  rosy 
hues,  and  the  fresh  evening  breeze  came  stealing  into  the 


"  WAITING    AND     WATCHING    FOR    ME."    287 

room,  laden  with  the  perfume  of  the  orange  and  lemon 
blossoms  it  had  kissed  on  its  way,  Mollie  Morton  passed 
from  the  world  where  she  had  known  so  much  care  to 
the  life  immortal,  where  the  shining  ones  were  waiting 
and  watching  for  her. 

And  far  down  the  coast,  threading  in  and  out  among 
the  little  islands  and  streams,  came  the  boat  which  bore 
the  Rev.  Theodore  Morton  to  the  wife  he  hoped  to  find 
alive.  Bee's  summons  had  found  him  busy  with  his 
people,  with  whom  he  was  deservedly  popular,  and  who 
bade  him  God-speed,  and  followed  him  with  prayers  for 
his  own  safety,  and,  if  possible,  the  recovery  of  his  wife, 
whom  they  had  never  seen.  But  this  last  was  not  to  be, 
and  when  about  noon  the  boat  came  up  to  its  accustomed 
landing-place,  and  Bee  stood  on  the  wharf  to  meet  him, 
he  knew  by  one  glance  at  her  face  that  he  had  come  too 
late.  Everything  which  love  could  devise  was  done  for 
the  dead,  on  whose  white  face  the  husband's  tears  fell 
fast  when  he  first  looked  upon  it,  feeling,  it  may  be,  an 
inner  consciousness  of  remorse  as  he  remembered  that 
all  his  heart  had  not  been  given  to  her.  But  he  had 
been  kind,  and  tender,  and  considerate,  and  he  folded  her 
children  in  his  arms,  and  felt  that  in  all  the  world  there 
was  nothing  so  dear  to  him  as  his  motherless  little  ones. 

The  next  day  they  left  Florida  for  the  bleak  hills  of 
Vermont,  where  the  wintry  winds  and  drifting  snow 
seemed  to  howl  a  wild  requiem  for  the  dead  woman, 
whose  body  rested  one  night  in  the  old  home  where  the 
white-haired  father  and  mother  wept  so  piteously  over 
it,  and  even  Aunt  Nancy  forgot  to  care  for  the  tracks 
upon  her  clean  kitchen  floor,  as  the  villagers  came  in 
with  words  of  condolence  and  sympathy.  Beatrice  was 
with  the  mourners  who  stood  by  the  grave  that  wild 
January  day  when  Mollie  Morton  was  buried,  and  she 
gave  the  message  from  the  dead,  to  the  husband,  who 
wept  like  a  child  when  he  saw  his  wife  laid  away  under 
the  blinding  snow,  which,  ere  the  close  of  the  day,  cov- 
ered the  grave  in  one  great  mountain  drift. 

Both  Everard  and  Rossie  had  written  to  Beatrice 
telling  her  of  Josephine's  arrival  at  the  Forrest  House, 
and,  with  a  feeling  that  she  was  needed  in  Rothsay,  she 
started  for  home  the  day  after  Mollie's  funeral. 


HOW    THE    TIDE    EBBED 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

HOW      THE     TIDE     EBBED     AND      FLOWED      IN 
KOTHSAY. 


OSEPHINE  had  resolved  to  be  popular  at  any 
cost,  and  make  for  herself  a  party,  and  so 
good  use  had  she  made  of  her  time  and  op- 
portunities that  when  Beatrice  arrived  the 
weaker  ones,  who,  with  Mrs.  Rider  at  their 
head,  had  from  the  first  espoused  her  cause,  were  grad- 
ually gaining  in  numbers;  while  the  better  class  of  people, 
Everard's  friends,  were  beginning  to  think  more  kindly 
of  the  lady  of  the  Forrest  House,  where  an  entire  new 
state  of  things  and  code  of  laws  had  been  inaugurated. 
Axie  had,  of  course,  vacated  immediately  after  Rossie's 
departure,  and  Josephine  had  been  wise  enough  not  to 
ask  her  to  remain.  She  knew  the  old  negress  was 
strongly  prejudiced  against  her,  and  was  glad  when  she 
departed,  bag  and  bundle,  for  the  little  house  she  had 
purchased  in  town,  where  she  could  be  near  "  her  boy," 
and  wash  and  mend  his  clothes,  and  fight  for  him  when 
necessary,  as  it  sometimes  was,  for  people  could  not 
easily  understand  his  indifference  to  the  beautiful  crea- 
ture who  was  conducting  herself  so  sweetly  and  mod- 
estly, and  whom  women  ran  to  the  windows  to  see 
when  she  drove  by  in  the  pretty  phaeton  which,  through 
Rossie's  influence,  she  had  managed  to  get  from  Everard, 
or  rather,  from  the  Forrest  estate.  It  is  true  the  horse 
did  not  suit  her.  It  was  too  old  and  slow,  and  not  at  all 
like  the  spirited  animal  she  used  to  drive  with  Captain 
Sparks  at  her  side  in  Holburton,  but  it  was  an  heir-loom, 
as  she  called  it,  laughingly,  raised  from  a  stock  of  horses 
which  had  been  in  the  family  for  years,  and  was  so 
steady  that  Mr.  Forrest  was  perfectly  willing  to  trust 
her  with  it  ;  and  each  day  she  drove  around  the  town, 
showing  herself  everywhere,  bowing  to  everybody  high 
and  low,  and  because  she  had  heard  that  Miss  Bclknap 
used  to  do  so,  taking  to  drive  the  sick  and  infirm  among 
the  poor  and  needy,  to  whom  she  was  all  kindness  and 
sympathy.  With  this  class,  however,  she  did  not  stand 


AND    FLOWED    IN    ROTH8AT.  289 

as  well  as  with  the  grade  above  them.  It  would  almost 
seem  as  if  they  were  gifted  with  a  special  insight,  and 
read  her  character  aright;  and  though  they  accepted 
what  she  offered  them,  they  did  not  believe  in  her,  and 
privately  among  themselves  declared  she  was  not  a  lady 
born, — or  a  fitting  wife  for  Everard. 

Agnes  never  appeared  with  her  in  public,  and  was 
seldom  seen  at  the  house  when  people  called.  "  She  was 
very  shy  and  timid,  and  shrank  from  meeting  strangers," 
Josephine  said,  to  the  few  who  felt  that  they  must  ask 
for  her,  and  who  accepted  the  excuse  and  left  Agnes 
free  to  become  in  Rothsay  what  she  had  been  in  Hoi- 
burton,  a  mere  household  drudge,  literally  doing  all  the 
work  for  the  colored  woman  whom  Josephine  employed 
and  called  her  cook,  but  who  was  wholly  incompetent  as 
well  as  indisposed  to  work.  So  the  whole  care  devolved 
on  Agnes,  who  took  up  her  burden  without  a  word  of 
protest,  and  worked  from  morning  till  night,  while  Jose- 
phine lounged  in  her  own  room,  where  she  had  her  meals 
more  than  half  the  time,  or  drove  through  the  town  in 
her  phaeton,  managing  always  to  pass  the  office  where 
Everard  toiled  early  and  late,  in  order  that  he  might 
have  the  means  to  support  her  without  touching  a  dollar 
of  Rossie's  fortune. 

As  yet  Josephine's  demands  upon  him  were  not  very 

freat.  Old  Axie  had  been  a  provident  housekeeper,  and 
osephine  found  a  profusion  of  everything  necessary  for 
the  table.  Her  wardrobe  did  not  need  replenishing,  and 
she  could  not  venture  upon  inviting  company  so  soon, 
consequently  she  was  rather  moderate  in  her  demands 
for  money;  but  Everard  knew  the  time  would  come  when 
all  he  had  would  scarcely  satisfy  her,  and  for  that  time 
he  worked,  silently,  doggedly,  rarely  speaking  to  any  one 
outside  his  business  unless  they  spoke  to  him,  and  never 
offering  a  word  of  explanation  with  regard  to  the 
estrangement,  which  was  becoming  more  and  more  a 
matter  of  wonder  and  comment, — as  people  saw  only 
sweetness  and  graciousness  in  Josey,  and  knew  nothing 
of  her  other  side. 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  Beatrice  came 
home,  very  unexpectedly  to  the  Rothsayites,  who  won- 
dered what  she  would  think  of  matters  at  the  Forrest 
House.  Josephine  had  spoken  frequently  of  Miss  Bel- 

13 


290  HOW    THE    TIDE    EBBED 

knap,  who,  she  said,  was  for  a  few  weeks  an  inmate  of  her 
mother's  family,  and  whom  she  admired  greatly.  Josey 
was  the  first  to  call  upon  Beatrice  ;  and  throwing  herself 
upon  her  neck,  burst  into  tears,  saying  : 

"  Oh,  Miss  Belknap,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  to 
be  my  friend  and  sister,  and  I  need  one  so  much.  I 
wish  I  had  told  you  the  truth  when  you  were  in  Hoi- 
burton,  but  Everard  was  afraid  of  having  it  known,  and 
now  he  is  so  cold  and  distant  and  I, — am, — so  unhappy. 
You  will  be  my  friend  and  help  me.  You  were  always 
so  kind  to  me,  and  I  liked  you  so  much." 

Beatrice  shook  her  off  as  gently  as  possible,  and 
answered  that  she  should  certainly  try  to  do  right, 
and  asked  after  Agnes,  and  how  her  visitor  liked  Roth- 
say,  and  if  Rosamond  had  written  to  her,  and  gradually 
drew  the  conversation  away  from  dangerous  ground, 
and  did  it  in  such  a  manner  that  Josephine  felt  that  she 
had  more  to  fear  from  Bee  Belknap  than  from  all  the 
world  besides.  And  she  had,  for  Bee's  opinion  was 
worth  more  than  that  of  any  twenty  people  in  Roth- 
say;  and  when  it  was  known  that  there  was  little  or  no 
intercourse  between  Elm  Park  and  the  Forrest  House, 
that  the  two  ladies  were  polite  to  each  other  and  noth- 
ing more,  that  Beatrice  never  expressed  herself  with 
regard  to  Mrs.  Forrest  or  mentioned  her  in  any  way, 
but  was  on  the  same  friendly  terms  with  Everard  as  ever, 
and  when,  as  a  crowning  act,  she  made  a  little  dinner 
party  from  which  Josephine  was  omitted,  the  people 
who  had  been  loudest  in  Josey's  praises  began  to  whisper 
together  that  there  must  be  something  wrong,  and  grad- 
ually a  cloud  not  larger  than  a  man's  hand  began  to 
show  itself  on  the  horizon.  But  small  as  it  was,  Jose- 
phine discovered  its  rising,  and  fought  it  with  all  her 
power,  even  going  so  far  as  to  insinuate  that  jealousy 
and  disappointment  were  the  causes  of  Miss  Belknap's 
coolness  toward  her.  But  this  fell  powerless  and  dead, 
and  Josey  could  no  more  injure  Beatrice  than  she  could 
turn  the  channel  of  the  river  from  its  natural  course. 
For  a  time,  however,  Josephine  held  her  ground  with  a 
few,  but  when  early  in  June  the  new  hotel  on  the  river 
road  was  filled  with  people  from  the  South,  many  of 
them  gay,  reckless  young  men,  ready  for  any  excite- 
ment, she  began  to  show  her  real  nature,  and  her  assumed 


AND    FLOWED    IN    ROTH8AY.  291 

modesty  and  reticence  slipped  from  her  like  a  garment 
unfitted  to  the  wearer.  How  she  managed  it  no  one 
could  guess,  but  in  less  than  two  weeks  she  knew  every 
young  man  stopping  at  the  Belknap  House,  as  it  was 
named  in  honor  of  Beatrice,  and  in  less  than  three  weeks 
she  had  taken  them  all  to  drive  with  her,  and  Forrest 
House  was  no  longer  lonely  for  want  of  company,  for 
the  doors  stood  open  till  midnight,  and  young  men 
lounged  on  the  steps  and  in  the  parlors,  and  came  to 
lunch  and  dinner,  and  the  rooms  were  filled  with  cigar- 
smoke,  and  Bacchanalian  songs  were  sung  by  the  half- 
tipsy  young  men,  and  toasts  were  drank  to  their  fair 
hostess,  whom  they  dubbed  "  Golden  Hair,"  and  called 
an  angel  to  her  face,  and  at  her  back,  among  themselves, 
a  brick,  and  even  "  the  old  girl,"  so  little  did  they  respect 
or  really  care  for  her. 

And  Josephine  was  quite  happy  again,  and  content. 
It  suited  her  better  to  be  fast  than  to  play  the  part  of  a 
quiet,  discreet  woman,  and  so  long  as  she  did  not  over- 
step the  bounds  of  decency,  or  greatly  outrage  the  rules 
of  propriety,  she  argued  that  it  was  no  one's  business 
what  she  did  or  how  much  attention  she  received.  As 
Axie  had  predicted,  the  real  color  was  showing  through 
the  whitewash,  and  people  began  to  understand  the  reason 
why  Everard  was  becoming  so  grave,  and  reserved,  and 
even  old  in  his  appearance,  with  a  look  upon  his  face 
such  as  no  ordinary  trouble  could  ever  have  written 
there. 

And  so  the  summer  waned  and  autumn  came  and 
went,  and  then  Josephine,  who,  while  affecting  to  be  so 
merry  and  gay,  writhed  under  the  slights  so  often  put  upon 
her,  discovered  that  she  needed  a  change  of  air,  and  de- 
cided that  a  winter  in  Florida  was  necessary  to  her 
health  and  happiness,  and  applied  to  Everard  for  the 
means  with  which  to  carry  out  her  plan.  At  first 
Everard  objected  to  the  Florida  trip  as  something  much 
more  expensive  than  he  felt  able  to  meet,  but  his  consent 
was  finally  given,  and  one  morning  in  December  the 
clerk  at  the  St.  James  Hotel,  in  Jacksonville,  wrote  upon 
his  books  "  Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest  and  maid,  and  Miss  Agnes 
Fleming,  Rothsay,  Ohio,"  while  a  week  later  there 
was  entered  upon  another  page,  "  Dr.  John  Matthewson, 


292  DR.    MATTHEWSON'S     GAME. 

New  York  City,"  and  two  weeks  later  still  "  Mrs.  An- 
drews and  family,  and  Miss  Rosamond  Hastings,  St. 
Louis,  Mo." 


CHAPTER  XL. 
DR.  MATTHEWSON'S  GAME. 

HE  St.  James  was  full  that  season,  and  when 
Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest  arrived  she  found  every 
room  occupied,  and  was  compelled  to  take 
lodgings  at  a  house  across  the  Park,  where 
guests  from  the  hotel  were  sometimes  accom- 
modated with  rooms,  and  where,  in  addition  to  her  own 
parlor  and  bedroom,  she  found  a  large  square  chamber, 
which  she  asked  the  mistress  of  the  house  to  reserve  for 
a  few  days,  as  she  was  expecting  an  old  friend  of  her 
husband's,  and  would  like  to  have  him  near  her,  inasmuch 
as  Mr.  Forrest  was  not  able  to  come  with  her  on  account 
of  his  business.  Later  in  the  season  he  might  join  her, 
but  now  he  was  too  busy.  She  laid  great  stress  upon 
having  a  husband,  and  she  was  so  gracious,  and  affable, 
and  pretty,  that  her  landlady,  Mrs.  Morris,  was  charmed 
at  once,  and  indorsed  the  beautiful  woman  who  at- 
tracted so  much  attention  in  the  street,  and  who  at  the 
hotel  took  everything  by  storm.  She  had  laid  aside  her 
mourning,  and  blossomed  out  in  a  most  exquisite  suit  of 
navy-blue  silk  and  velvet,  which,  although  made  in  Paris 
more  than  a  year  before,  was  still  a  little  in  advance  of 
the  Florida  fashions,  and  was  admired  by  every  lady  in 
the  hotel,  and  patterns  of  the  pocket,  and  cuffs,  and  over- 
skirt  were  mentally  taken  and  experimented  upon  in  the 
ladies'  rooms,  where  the  grace,  and  beauty,  and  probable 
antecedents  of  the  stranger  were  freely  discussed. 

Nobody  had  ever  heard  of  Mrs.  J.  E.  Forrest,  and  few 
had  heard  of  Rothsay,but  there  were  some  people  at  the  St. 
James,  this  winter,  who  remembered  Miss  Belknap  and 
Mrs.  Morton,  and  when  it  was  known  that  Mrs.  Forrest 
was  their  friend  the  matter  was  settled,  and  Josephine 
became  the  belle  and  beauty  of  the  place.  Young  men 


DR.    MATTHEWSON'S    GAME.  293 

stationed  themselves  near  the  door  through  which  she 
came  in  to  the  hall  to  look  at  her  as  she  passed,  but  if  she 
was  conscious  of  their  homage  she  made  no  sign,  and 
never  seemed  to  know  how  much  attention  she  was  at- 
tracting. One  or  two  ladies  spoke  to  her  at  last  as  she 
stopped  for  a  while  in  the  parlor,  and  so  her  acquaintance 
began,  and  Miss  Belknap  was  brought  to  the  surface,  and 
Mr.  Forrest  was  talked  about,  and  a  little  hacking  cough 
was  produced,  by  way  of  showing  what  had  sent  this 
dainty,  delicate  creature  away  from  her  husband,  with 
no  other  guardianship  than  that  of  her  sister.  But 
Agnes'  presence  was  sufficient  to  save  appearances.  She 
was  much  older,  and  so  quiet  and  reserved,  and  even 
shy,  that  the  ladies  made  no  advances  to  her,  and  after  a 
little  scarcely  noticed  her  as  she  sat  apart  from  them, 
waiting  patiently  till  her  brilliant  sister  was  ready  to  go 
home.  Josephine  was  expecting  a  gentleman  friend, 
whom  she  had  known  ever  since  she  was  a  young  girl, 
she  said,  the  fourth  day  after  her  arrival,  and  the  ladies 
were  glad,  as  it  would  be  so  much  pleasanter  for  her  in 
her  husband's  absence  ;  and  so  matters  were  made  easy 
for  the  coming  of  Dr.  Matthewson,  who,  since  parting 
from  Josephine  in  Dresden,  more  than  a  year  before,  had 
visited  nearly  every  city  of  note  in  Europe,  sometimes 
meeting  with  success  in  his  profession  as  gambler  and 
sometimes  not,  sometimes  living  like  a  millionaire  and 
sometimes  like  a  beggar.  The  millionaire  life  suited  him 
the  best,  but  how  to  secure  it  as  a  permanency,  or  even 
to  secure  a  comfortable  living  which  required  neither 
exertion  nor  self-denial,  was  something  which  puzzled 
him  sorely,  until  he  received  a  letter  from  Josephine, 
which  inspired  him  at  once  with  fresh  courage  and  hope. 
The  letter,  which  was  written  from  the  Forrest  House, 
was  a  long  time  in  reaching  him,  and  found  him  at  last 
in  Moscow,  where  his  genius  of  bad  luck  was  in  the 
ascendant,  and  he  had  fallen  into  the  toils  of  a  set  of 
sharpers,  who  were  using  him  for  their  own  base  pur- 
poses. Handsome  in  face  and  form,  winning  in  his  man- 
ner, and  perfectly  familiar  with  nearly  every  language 
spoken  on  the  Continent,  he  was  very  useful  to  them  by 
way  of  bringing  under  their  influence  strangers  who 
visited  the  city,  and  they  kept  a  hold  upon  him  which  he 
could  not  well  shake  off. 


294  DR.    MATTHEWSON'S    GAME. 

When  he  received  Josephine's  letter  telling  him 
where  she  was,  and  the  disposition  Judge  Forrest  had 
made  of  his  property,  and  Rosamond's  determination 
not  to  use  more  of  it  than  was  absolutely  necessary,  but 
to  restore  it  to  Everard  when  she  came  of  age,  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  leave  Moscow  at  all  hazards,  and,  cross- 
ing the  sea,  seek  out  the  sister  in  whom  he  suddenly 
found  himself  greatly  interested.  And  to  this  end  for- 
tune favored  him  at  last  by  sending  in  his  way  a  German 
Jew, — Van  Schoisner, — between  whom  and  himself  there 
sprang  up  a  friendship  which  finally  resulted  in  the  Jew's 
loaning  him  money  enough  to  escape  from  the  city  which 
had  been  in  one  sense  a  prison  to  him.  Van  Schoisner 
was  his  compagnon-du-voyage,  and  as  both  were  gam- 
blers, they  made  straight  for  Vienna,  where  Matthew- 
son's  luck  came  back  to  him,  and  he  won  so  rapidly  and 
largely  that  Van  Schoisner,  who  was  tinged  with  German 
superstition,  regarded  him  as  one  whom  the  god  of  the 
gaming-table  especially  favored,  and  clung  to  him  and 
made  much  of  him,  and  when  a  malarial  fever  attacked 
him  took  him  to  his  brother's,  a  Dr.  Van  Schoisner,  who 
kept  what  he  called  a  private  maison-de-sante,  in  an 
obscure  Austrian  town,  half  way  between  Vienna  and 
Lintz. 

And  here  Dr.  Matthewson  paid  the  penalty  of  his 
dissipated  life  in  a  fit  of  sickness  which  lasted  for 
months,  and  left  him  weak  and  feeble  as  a  child.  Dur- 
ing all  this  time  he  did  not  hear  from  Josephine,  whose 
letters  never  reached  him,  and  he  knew  nothing  of  her 
until  he  reached  New  York,  when  he  wrote  at  once  to 
her  at  Rothsay,  asking  very  particularly  for  Rosamond, 
and  announcing  his  intention  of  visiting  the  Forrest 
House,  if  agreeable  to  the  inmates. 

To  this  letter  Josephine  replied  immediately,  telling 
him  not  on  any  account  to  come  to  Rothsay,  but  to  join 
her  in  Florida  about  the  middle  of  December,  when  she 
would  tell  him  everything  which  had  happened  to  her 
since  their  last  meeting  in  Dresden.  In  a  postscript  she 
added  : 

"  Miss  Hastings  is  not  here,  and  has  not  been  since 
last  January.  She  is  somebody's  governess,  I  believe." 

And  it  was  this  postscript  which  interested  the  doctor 
more  than  the  whole  of  Josephine's  letter.  If  Rosamond 


DR.    MATTHEWSON'S    GAME.  295 

were  not  in  Rothsay,  then  where  was  she,  and  how  should 
he  find  her  ?  for  find  her  he  must,  and  play  the  role  of 
the  loving  brother,  which  role  would  be  all  the  more 
effective,  he  thought,  because  of  the  air  of  invalidism 
there  was  about  him  now,  and  which  sat  well  upon  him. 
He  really  was  weak  from  his  recent  illness,  but  he 
affected  more  languor  than  he  felt,  and  seemed  quite 
tired  and  exhausted  when  he  reached  the  house  where 
Josephine  was  stopping,  and  where  his  room  was  in  read- 
iness for  him  ;  and  Josephine  cooed  and  fluttered  about 
him,  and  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  so  anxious  that  he 
should  have  every  possible  attention. 

And  Dr.  Matthewson  enjoyed  it  all  to  the  full,  and 
was  never  tired  of  hearing  of  the  Forrest  House,  or  of 
asking  questions  about  Rosamond,  of  whom  Josey  at  last 
affected  to  be  jealous. 

And  so  the  days  went  on  until  the  first  week  in  Jan- 
uary, when  one  morning,  as  the  doctor  and  Josephine  sat 
together  on  the  long  piazza  of  the  hotel,  a  carriage  from 
the  boat  arrived,  laden  with  trunks,  and  children,  and 
two  ladies,  one  middle-aged,  and  apparently  the  mother 
of  the  children,  the  other,  young,  graceful,  and  pretty, 
even  in  her  soiled  traveling-dress  of  dark  gray  serge. 
As  she  threw  back  her  vail  and  descended  from  the  car- 
riage Josephine  started  suddenly,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Rosamond  Hastings,  for  all  the  world  !  What 
brought  her  here  ?" 

"  Who  ?  Where  ?  Do  you  mean  that  girl  with  the 
blue  vail  and  gray  dress,  and, — by  Jove,  those  magnifi- 
cent eyes?"  Dr.  Matthewson  said,  as  Rosamond  turned 
her  face  in  the  direction  where  he  was  sitting,  and 
glanced  rapidly  at  the  groups  of  people  upon  the  piazza, 
without,  however,  seeing  any  one  distinctly. 

"Yes,  that's  Rosamond,"  Josey  replied,  with  a  feeling 
of  annoyance  at  the  arrival  of  one  who  might  work  her 
so  much  harm.  "I'll  see  her  at  once,  and  make  that  mat- 
ter right,"  she  thought,  and  trusting  to  Rossie's  good 
nature  and  her  ingenuity,  she  resumed  her  conversation 
with  the  doctor,  who  seemed  unusually  silent  and  absent- 
minded,  and  after  a  little  excused  himself,  saying  he  was 
not  feeling  quite  well,  and  believed  he'd  take  a  sail  oa 
the  river,  and  see  if  the  fresh  air  would  not  revive  him. 

Usually   Josephine  had  been  his  companion  in  his 


296  HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

sails  on  the  river,  but  he  did  not  ask  her  to  go  with  him 
now.  He  preferred  to  be  alone,  and  with  a  gracious 
bow  he  walked  away,  not  so  much  to  try  the  river  air  as 
to  think  over  and  perfect  his  plans  for  the  future. 

"By  George!"  he  said  to  himself,  "this  is  what  I 
call  luck.  Here  I've  been  wondering  how  I  should  find 
the  girl,  and  behold,  she  has  dropped  suddenly  upon  me, 
and  if  I  play  my  cards  well  the  game  is  mine,  and  her 
money  too,  or  my  name  is  not  Matthewson,  ne  Hastings, 
ne  villain  of  the  first  water." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 
HOW   THE  GAME   WAS    PLAYED. 

OSAMOND'S  life  as  a  governess  had  been  a 
very  happy  one,  but  still  there  was  always 
present  with  her  a  consciousness  of  pain 
and  loss, — a  keen  regret  and  intense  longing 
for  the  "  might  have  been,"  and  a  great  pity 
for  Everard,  whose  lot  she  knew  was  so  much  harder  to 
bear  than  her  own;  for  with  him  the  burden  was  growing 
heavier,  and  the  chain  ever  lengthening,  which  bound 
him  to  his  fate.  He  had  written  to  her  frequently  during 
the  past  year,  friendly,  brotherly  letters,  such  as  Jose- 
phine might  have  read  without  just  cause  of  complaint. 
But  he  had  given  way  once,  and  in  a  moment  when  his 
sky  was  very  dark,  had  poured  out  his  soul  in  passionate, 
burning  words,  telling  how  dreary  life  was  to  him  with- 
out her,  and  asking  if  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
think  that  the  divorce  he  could  so  easily  get  was  valid, 
and  would  free  him  from  the  hateful  tie  which  bound 
him? 

And  Rosamond  had  answered  him,  "  Only  God  can 
free  you  from  the  bond,"  and  had  said  he  must  never 
write  like  that  to  her  again  if  he  wished  her  to  answer 
him  ;  and  so  the  last  hope  was  crushed,  and  Everard  took 
up  his  load  once  more  and  tried  to  bear  it  more  manfully, 
and  by  a  closer  attention  to  his  practice  to  forget  the 


HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED.  297 

bliss  which  might  have  been  his  had  he  not  rashly  thrown 
the  chance  away.  Rossie  had  said  to  him  in  her  letter, 
"Pray,  Everard,  as  I  do ;  pray  often,  that  you  may 
learn  to  think  of  me  as  only  your  sister,  the  little  Rossie 
who  amused  you  and  whom  you  liked  to  tease." 

But  Everard  did  not  pray.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
in  a  most  resentful  and  rebellious  frame  of  mind,  and 
blamed  the  Providence  which  had  permitted  him  to  go 
so  far  astray.  It  was  well  enough  for  women  to  pray, 
and  those  who  had  never  been  tried  and  tempted  as  he 
had  been,  but  for  himself,  he  saw  no  justice  in  God's 
dealings  with  him,  and  he  could  not  ask  to  be  content 
with  what  he  loathed  from  his  very  soul,  he  wrote  in 
reply  to  Rossie,  who,  while  he  grew  harder  and  more 
reckless,  was  rapidly  developing  into  a  character  sweeter 
and  lovelier  than  anything  Everard  had  known.  And 
the  new  life  and  principle  within  her  showed  itself 
upon  her  face,  which  was  like  the  face  of  Murillo's 
sweetest  Madonna,  where  the  earthly  love  blends  so  har- 
moniously with  the  divine,  and  gives  a  glorious  and 
saintly  expression  to  the  lovely  countenance.  But  Ros- 
sie's  health  had  suffered  from  this  constant  sense  of  pain 
and  loss.  The  bright  color  was  gone  from  her  cheeks 
save  as  it  came  and  went  with  fatigue  or  excitement, 
and  there  was  about  her  a  frail,  delicate  look,  wholly 
unlike  the  child  Rossie,  who  used  to  be  so  full  of  life 
and  vigor  in  the  old  happy  days  at  the  Forrest  House. 
Still,  she  complained  of  "nothing  except  that  she  was 
always  tired,  but  this  was,  in  Mrs.  Andrews'  mind,  a  suffi- 
ciently alarming  symptom,  and  it  was  as  much  on  Ros- 
sie's  account  as  on  her  own  that  she  planned  the  trip  to 
Florida,  where  she  hoped  the  warm  sunlight  would 
bring  strength  again  to  the  girl  whom  she  loved  almost 
as  a  daughter. 

And  so  they  were  at  the  St.  James,  where  Mrs.  An- 
drews found  several  acquaintances,  but  Rossie  saw  no 
one  whom  she  knew,  and  as  she  had  a  severe  headache 
she  kept  her  room,  and  did  not  appear  until  the  second 
day,  when  she  dressed  herself  and  went  down  to  join 
Mrs.  Andrews  on  the  piazza,  where  the  guests  usually 
congregated  in  the  morning.  There  was  a  crowd  of  them 
there  now,  and  Mrs.  Andrews,  who  was  very  popular  and 
entertaining,  was  already  the  center  of  a  group  of  friends, 

13* 


298  HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

with  whom  she  was  talking,  when  Rosamond  appeared, 
and  made  her  way  towards  her.  Everybody  turned 
to  look  after  her,  and  none  more  eagerly  than  Dr.  Mat- 
thewson,  who  stood  leaning  against  the  railing,  and 
waiting  for  Josephine  to  join  him.  He  had  watched 
for  Rossie  all  the  preceding  day,  after  her  arrival,  and 
felt  greatly  disappointed  at  her  non-appearance,  but  he 
knew  she  was  there,  his  half-sister,  and  the  heiress  to 
hundreds  of  thousands,  and,  as  he  believed,  of  a  nature 
which  he  could  mold  as  he  would  clay,  if  he  could  only 
know  just  what  her  tastes  were,  and  adapt  himself  to 
them.  As  yet  he  had  been  quite  non-committal,  only 
devoting  himself  to  Josephine,  and  talking  very  little 
with  any  one,  so  that  he  could,  if  necessary,  become  a 
saint  or  a  sinner,  and  not  seem  inconsistent.  Probably 
he  would  have  to  be  a  saint,  he  thought;  and  when  at 
last  Rossie  appeared,  and  passed  so  near  to  him  that  he 
might  have  touched  her,  he  was  quite  sure  of  it.  Girls 
with  the  expression  in  their  faces  which  hers  wore  didn't 
believe  in  slang  and  profanity,  and  the  many  vices  to 
which  he  was  addicted,  and  of  which  Josephine  made  so 
light.  Rossie  was  pure  and  innocent,  and  must  never 
suspect  the  black  catalogue  of  sins  at  which  he  some- 
times dared  not  look.  How  fair  and  lovely  she  was,  with 
that  sweet  modesty  of  demeanor  which  never  could 
have  been  feigned  for  the  occasion;  and  how  eagerly 
the  doctor  watched  her  as  she  joined  Mrs.  Andrews,  and 
was  introduced  to  the  ladies  around  her. 

"  Good-morning.  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  was 
cooed  in  his  ear,  and  turning,  he  met  Josephine's  blue 
eyes  uplifted  to  him,  and  Josephine  herself  stood  there 
in  her  very  prettiest  white  wrapper,  with  an  oleander 
blossom  in  her  golden  hair. 

She,  too,  had  watched  anxiously  for  Rosamond, 
whom  she  meant  to  secure  before  any  mischief  could 
be  done,  and  she  saw  her  now  at  once  in  the  distance, 
and  saw  the  doctor  was  loojdng  in  that  direction,  too, 
and  knew,  before  she  asked  him,  of  what  he  was  think- 
ing. But  a  slight  frown  darkened  her  face  at  his  frank 
reply  : 

"  I  am  thinking  how  very  pretty  and  attractive  Miss 
Hastings  is.  You  must  manage  to  introduce  me  as  soon 
as  possible,  or  I  shall  introduce  myself." 


HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED.  299 

Just  then  Rossie  turned  her  face  fully  toward  her, 
and  their  eyes  met  in  recognition.  There  was  a  violent 
start  on  Rossie's  part,  and  the  blood  flamed  into  her 
cheeks  for  an  instant  and  then  left  them  ashy  pale,  as 
she  saw  the  woman  for  whom  she  could  not  have  much 
respect  smiling  so  brightly  upon  her,  and  advancing  to 
meet  her  as  quickly  and  gladly  as  if  they  were  the  great- 
est friends. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Hastings  !"  she  said,  in  her  most  flute-like 
tones,  "  this  is  a  surprise.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you. 
When  did  you  come  ?" 

Rossie  explained  when  she  had  come  and  with  whom, 
and  after  a  few  brief  remarks  on  the  town  and  the  cli- 
mate, made  as  if  she  would  return  to  Mrs.  Andrews;  but 
now  was  Josephine's  opportunity  or  never,  and  still 
holding  Rossie's  hand,  which  she  had  not  relinquished, 
she  said  : 

"  Come  with  me  a  moment,  please  ;  there  are  so  many 
things  I  want  to  say.  Suppose  we  take  a  little  turn  on 
the  piazza,"  and  leading  Rossie  around  the  corner  of  the 
hotel  to  a  seat  where  no  one  was  sitting,  she  plunged  ^t 
once  into  the  subject  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

"  Miss  Hastings,"  she  said,  "  you  alone  of  all  the 
people  here  know  just  how  I  am  living  with  Everard,  or, 
rather,  not  living  with  him.  It  was  not  necessary  for 
me  to  explain  everything,  and  for  aught  they  know  to 
the  contrary,  I  have  the  most  devoted  of  husbands,  who 
may  join  me  any  day.  You,  of  course,  can  undeceive 
them  if  you  like,  but " 

"  Mrs.  Forrest,"  Rossie  exclaimed,  "  I  have  no  wish 
to  injure  you.  If  I  am  asked  straightforward  questions 
I  must  tell  the  truth  ;  otherwise  I  have  nothing  to  say  of 
your  life  at  home,  or  of  anything  in  the  past  pertaining 
to  you  and  Everard." 

"  Thank  you  so  much.  I  knew  I  could  trust  you,'* 
Josephine  said,  feeling  immensely  relieved.  "  And  now 
come,  let  me  present  you  to  a  friend  whom  I  used  to 
know  in  Holburton,  and  met  afterward  in  Dresden.  He 
is  here  for  his  health,  and  is  so  kind  to  Aggie  and  me. 
You  must  come  to  my  room  and  see  Agnes.  She  never 
stops  a  moment  here  after  she  has  had  her  meals." 

She  talked  rapidly  and  excitedly,  and  laid  her  hand  on 
Rossie's  arm,  as  if  to  lead  her  to  Dr.  Matthewson,  who 


300  HOW    THE     GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

forestalled  the  intention  by  suddenly  appearing  before 
them.  He  was  more  impatient  to  speak  to  Rosamond 
than  Josephine  was  to  have  him,  and  joined  them  for 
that  very  purpose.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  seemed 
more  at  his  ease  or  appeared  to  better  advantage,  and 
there  was  something  very  winning  and  gracious  in  his 
manner  as  he  bowed  to  Miss  Hastings,  and  hoped  she 
found  herself  well  in  the  delicious  Florida  air. 

"  You  do  not  look  very  strong,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  a 
few  days  of  this  sunshine  will  do  you  much  good."  He 
was  very  kind  and  considerate,  and  bade  her  be  seated 
again  while  he  talked  with  her  a  few  moments  on  indif- 
ferent topics.  Then,  consulting  his  watch,  he  said  to 
Josephine  :  "  Mrs.  Forrest,  don't  you  think  we  should 
have  that  game  of  croquet  before  the  day  gets  hotter? 
You  see  they  are  beginning  to  occupy  the  grounds  al- 
ready," and  he  nodded  toward  the  opposite  side  of  the 
park,  where  a  group  of  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  were 
knocking  about  the  balls  preparatory  to  a  game.  "  To- 
morrow we  shall  ask  you  to  join  us,"  he  said  to  Rossie, 
"  but  as  a  physician,  I  advise  you  to  rest  to-day  after  your 
long  journey.  Coming  suddenly  into  this  climate  is  apt 
to  debilitate  if  one  is  not  careful.  Good-morning,  Miss 
Hastings,"  and  with  a  graceful  wave  of  his  hand  he 
walked  away  with  Josephine,  leaving  Rosamond  to  look 
after  and  admire  his  splendid  physique  and  manly  form, 
and  to  think  what  a  pleasant,  gentlemanly  person  he  was, 
with  such  a  melodious  voice. 

Already  he  was  beginning  to  affect  and  influence  her 
thoughts,  and  she  sat  and  watched  him  as  he  walked 
very  slowly  toward  the  croquet-ground,  where,  instead 
of  joining  in  the  game,  he  sat  down  at  some  little  dis- 
tance and  continued  his  conversation  with  Josephine, 
whose  cheeks  were  flushed  and  who  seemed  unusually 
excited. 

The  doctor's  first  remark  to  her  as  they  left  the  hotel 
had  been  : 

"  Well,  Joe,  did  you  fix  it  all  right  with  her  ?" 

"  Fix  what  ?"  Josephine  asked,  knowing  perfectly 
well  what  he  meant,  but  being  determined  that  he  should 
explain. 

"  Why,  have  you  hired  her  not  to  go  back  on  you, 


HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLATED.  301 


nd  tell  that  you  are  a  grass  widow  instead  of  a  loving 
dfe,  whose  husband  is  pining  in  her  absence  ?" 


and 
wife, 

The  elegant  doctor  could  be  very  coarse  and  unfeel- 
ing when  he  talked  with  Josephine,  whom  he  understood 
so  well,  and  who  replied  : 

"  If  you  mean  will  she  hold  her  tongue  about  my 
affairs,  she  will,  and  she  does  not  know  that  you  are  the 
1  priest  all  shaven  and  shorn,  who  married  the  youth  all 
tattered  and  torn  to  the  maiden  all  forlorn.'  I  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  tell  her  that.  Possibly,  though,  she 
may  have  heard  your  name  from  Everard  ;  I  do  not 
know  how  that  may  be.  I  only  told  her  that  I  knew 
you  in  Holburton,  and  that  I  met  you  again  in  Dresden." 

"  Yes  ;" — the  doctor  smoothed  his  mustache  thought- 
fully a  moment,  and  then  added  :  "  I  say,  Joe,  don't  be 
in  such  a  hurry  to  get  to  the  croquet.  I  want  to  talk 
with  you.  I've  turned  a  new  leaf.  I've  reformed. 
That  time  I  was  so  sick  in  Austria,  I  repented.  I  did, 
upon  my  soul,  and  said  a  bit  of  a  prayer, — and  I  believe 
I'll  join  the  church  again  ;  but  first  I'll  confess  to  you, 
who  I  know  will  be  as  lenient  toward  me  as  any  one. 
I  suppose  you  think  you  know  just  what  and  who  I  am, 
but  you  are  mistaken.  I  am  a  hypocrite,  a  rascal,  a 
gambler,  and  have  broken  every  Commandment,  I  do 
believe,  except  *  thou  shalt  not  kill,'  and  under  great 
provocation  I  might  do  that,  perhaps  ;  and,  added  to  all 
this,  I  am  Rossie  Hastings'  half-brother." 

"  Rossie  Hastings'  brother  !  Do  you  mean  you  are 
Rosamond's  brother?  and  did  you  know  it  when  you 
first  came  to  Holburton,  and  why  isn't  your  name  Hast- 
ings, then  ?"  Josephine  asked,  excitedly,  and  he  replied, 
in  the  most  quiet  and  composed  manner  : 

"  One  question  at  a  time,  ray  dear.  I  am  her  brother, 
and  my  name  was  Hastings  once, — John  Matthewson 
Hastings.  I  took  the  Matthewson  and  dropped  the 
Hastings  to  please  a  relative,  who  left  me  a  few  thou- 
sands at  her  death.  I  did  know  Rossie  was  my  sister 
when  I  first  met  Everard  Forrest  in  Holburton,  and  to 
that  knowledge  you  owe  your  present  exalted  position  as 
his  wife." 

She  turned  her  eyes  inquiringly  upon  him,  and  he 
continued  : 


302  HOW    THE     GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

"I  told  you  I  was  going  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
my  sins,  and  I  am,  so  far  as  your  business  is  concerned. 
I  hated  Everard  and  the  whole  Forrest  race,  and  that  was 
my  revenge  !" 

"  Hated  Everard  !  For  what  ?  Had  you  seen  him 
before  you  met  him  in  Holburton  ?"  Josephine  said;  and 
he  replied  : 

"  Yes,  I  had  seen  him,  and  I  carried  the  marks  of  our 
meeting  for  weeks  and  weeks  on  my  forehead,  and  the 
remembrance  of  it  in  my  heart  always.  I  had  a  step- 
mother,— a  weak  young  thing  whom  I  hated  from  the 
first,  for  no  special  reason  that  I  now  recall,  except  that 
she  was  a  step-mother  and  I  thought  I  must  hate  her ; 
and  I  did,  and  worried  her  life  almost  out  of  her  ;  and 
when  a  baby  sister  was  born  I  hated  that,  because  it  was 
hers,  and  because  it  would  naturally  share  in  my  father's 
property,  which  was  not  large.  The  new  mother  was 
luxurious  in  her  tastes,  and  spent  a  great  deal,  and  that 
made  trouble  between  her  and  my  father,  who,  though  a 
very  elegant  man  in  public,  was  the  very  Old  Nick  at 
home,  and  led  his  young  wife  such  a  life  that  even  I 
pitied  her  sometimes,  and  did  not  wonder  that  she  left  him 
at  last,  and  took  refuge  with  her  intimate  friend,  Mrs. 
Forrest,  Everard's  mother.  Not  long  after  she  left 
home  my  father  died,  and  I  was  made  very  angry  be- 
cause of  some  money  he  left  to  Rossie,  which  I  thought 
ought  to  be  mine,  inasmuch  as  it  came  to  him  from  my 
mother.  So  I  persecuted  my  mother-in-law,  who,  I 
believe,  was  more  afraid  of  me  than  of  the  old  Harry 
himself.  I  went  to  the  Forrest  House  and  demanded 
first  to  see  her,  and  then  to  see  my  sister,  pretending  I 
was  going  to  take  her  away.  The  boy  Everard  was  at 
home,  had  just  come  in  from  riding,  and  he  ordered  me 
from  the  house,  and  when  I  refused  to  go  the  stripling 
attacked  me  with  his  whip,  and  laid  the  blows  on  well, 
too,  especially  the  one  on  my  face,  the  mark  of  which  I 
carried  so  long.  I  swore  I'd  have  revenge  on  him,  and  I 
kept  my  word,  though  at  one  time  I  gave  up  the  idea 
entirely.  That  was  at  the  camp-meeting,  where  a  lot  of 
them  converted  me,  or  thought  they  did,  and  for  a  spell 
I  felt  differently,  and  got  a  license  to  preach,  and  tried  to 
be  good;  but  the  seed  was  sown  on  stony  ground  and 


HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED.  303 

came  to  nothing,  and  I  took  seven  spirits  worse  than  the 
first,  and  backslid  and  quit  the  ministry,  and  went  to 
studying  physic,  and  was  called  doctor,  and  roamed  the 
world  over,  sometimes  with  plenty  of  money,  sometimes 
with  none,  and  drifted  at  last  to  Holburton,  where  you 
asked  me  to  be  the  priest  in  the  play,  and  marry  you  to 
Everard  Forrest.  You  probably  do  not  remember  how 
closely  I  questioned  you  about  the  young  man.  I  wished 
to  be  certain  with  regard  to  his  identity,  and  I  was  after 
talking  with  him  about  his  home  in  Rothsay.  He  told 
me  of  Rossie,  and  boasted  of  the  whipping  he  had  given 
her  brother,  whose  vengeance  he  did  not  fear.  He  was 
young.  His  father  was  rich,  and  proud  as  Lucifer,  and 
would  hardly  think  a  princess  good  enough  to  marry  his 
only  son,  much  less  you,  the  daughter  of  his  landlady. 

"  Something  told  me  I  could  not  do  Everard  a  worse 
turn  than  to  tie  him  fast  in  matrimony.  You  were  not 
his  stamp  ;  not  the  one  to  hold  him  long  ;  he  would  re- 
pent the  act  sooner  or  later,  while  his  father  would  make 
life  a  burden  to  him  when  he  came  to  know  it.  So  I 
was  particular  to  leave  nothing  undone  which  would 
make  the  marriage  valid,  and  when  you  were  man  and 
wife  I  felt  perfectly  happy,  until, — I  began  to  get  in- 
terested in  you  myself,  and  then  I  sometimes  wished  my 
tongue  had  been  cut  out,  for  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't 
admire  you  more  than  any  woman  I  ever  saw,  notwith- 
standing that  I  know  you  like  a  book." 

"  Spare  your  compliments  and  keep  to  your  story, 
and  tell  me  why  you  have  made  no  effort  to  see  Rossie 
all  these  years,"  Josephine  said,  coldly  ;  and  he  replied, 
"Reason  enough.  I  was  not  particularly  interested  in 
her  then,  and  did  not  think  an  acquaintance  with  her 
would  pay  ;  but  later  she  has  come  before  me  in  the 
character  of  an  heiress,  which  makes  her  a  very  different 
creature  ;  you  see,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  see.  Your  sudden  interest  in  her  is  wholly 
mercenary.  Suppose  I  should  betray  you?  Are  you 
not  afraid  of  it  ?"  Josephine  asked,  and  in  her  blue 
eyes  there  was  a  look  which  the  doctor  did  not  quite 
like  ;  but  he  affected  not  to  see  it,  and  replied,  "Afraid  ? 
No,  because  telling  is  a  game  two  can  play  at  as  well 
as  one.  You  cannot  afford  to  quarrel  with  me,  Joe." 


304  HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

The  man's  face  was  exceedingly  insolent  and  dis- 
agreeable in  its  expression  for  a  moment,  while  he 
glanced  sidewise  at  his  companion,  who  made  no  sign 
that  she  heard  him,  but  seemed  wholly  intent  upon  the 
game,  which  was  now  growing  very  exciting.  But  when 
the  expression  changed,  and  he  continued  in  his  most 
winning  tone  : 

"No,  we  must  stick  to  each  other,  and  whatever  good 
comes  to  me  I'll  share  religiously  with  you  ;"  she  began 
faintly  to  comprehend  him,  and  turning  her  eyes  upon 
him,  said  : 

"  Well,  to  return  to  first  principles,  Rossie  is  inter- 
esting to  you  now  because  she  has  money  ;  but  she  will 
not  use  it  even  for  herself." 

"No!" — and  the  doctor  mused  thoughtfully  a  mo- 
ment ;  then  he  said  :  "  I  like  the  girl's  appearance,  upon 
my  soul  I  do  !  She  is  a  pretty  little  filly,  and  if  I'd  met 
her  years  ago  she  might  have  made  a  man  of  me,  but 
it  is  too  late  now  ;  I  am  sold  to  Satan,  body  and  soul, 
and  must  do  his  bidding.  How  much  is  she  worth,  do 
you  think  ?" 

"  The  Forrest  estate  is  variously  estimated  from  two 
hundred  to  five  hundred  thousand.  I  should  say,  per- 
haps, two  hundred  and  fifty,"  Josephine  replied,  and  the 
doctor  continued  : 

"  And  she  will  not  touch  the  principal  on  account  of 
some  queer  notions  she  has  of  giving  it  back  to  Forrest 
when  she  is  twenty-one  ?" 

"  No,  she  will  not  touch  the  principal,  nor  more  of 
the  interest  than  is  absolutely  necessary,"  Josephine  said, 
and  for  a  few  moments  the  doctor  was  silent  and  seemed 
to  be  intently  thinking. 

When  he  spoke  again  he  said  : 

"  You  say  she  is  pious,  or  pretends  to  be,  and  if  she 
does  it  is  genuine  ;  there  is  no  deceit  in  that  face.  I'd 
trust  it  with  my  soul,  if  necessary.  I  tell  you  I  like  the 
girl.  She  is  just  the  one  to  keep  men  from  losing  faith 
in  everything  good.  I'll  wager  now  that  Forrest  is  in 
love  with  her,  and  that's  one  reason  he  does  not  take  any 
more  stock  in  you.  Is  he?"  and  the  doctor  looked 
steadily  at  Josephine,  who  turned  very  pale  as  he  thus 
probed  her  so  closely. 


HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED.  305 

So  far  as  affection  was  concerned  she  had  none  for 
her  husband,  but  it  hurt  her  pride  cruelly  to  know  that 
with  all  her  beauty  and  grace  she  could  not  influence 
him  one  whit,  or  turn  him  from  the  girl  she  was  sure  he 
loved  as  he  had  never  loved  her.  She  generally  told  the 
truth  to  Dr.  Matthewson,  who  had  some  subtle  power  to 
find  it  out  if  she  did  not,  and  now,  though  sorely  against 
her  will,  she  answered  : 

"Yes,  he  worships  the  ground  she  treads  upon." 

"  Then,  why  in  thunder  doesn't  he  get  a  divorce  from 
you  and  marry  her  ?  That  surely  would  be  an  easy 
thing  to  do  under  the  circumstances,"  was  the  doctor's 
next  remark. 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  guess,  unless  he  is  too  proud 
to  endure  the  notoriety  of  such  a  procedure.  Certainly 
it  is  no  consideration  for  me  which  deters  him,"  Jose- 
phine said  ;  adding  suddenly,  as  she  glanced  up  the  street : 
"  There  she  comes  now.  You'd  better  declare  yourself 
at  once." 

But  the  doctor  knew  his  own  plans  best  with  regard 
to  Rosamond,  who  was  coming  toward  the*  croquet- 

§  round  with  two  of  her  pupils,  Clara  and  Eva  Andrews, 
he  did  not  see  the  doctor  and  Josephine  until  she  was 
close  upon  them,  and  then  simply  bowing  to  them,  she 
passed  on  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

That  night,  as  she  was  about  preparing  for  bed,  a 
thick  heavy  envelope  was  brought  to  her  room,  directed 
in  a  hand  she  did  not  recognize.  Breaking  the  seal  and 
glancing  at  the  signature,  she  read  with  a  thrill  of  won- 
der and  perplexity  the  name,  "John  Matthewson,  nee 
Hastings."  while  just  above  it  were  the  words,  "  Your 
affectionate  brother." 

"  My  brother,"  she  repeated.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?" 
and  for  a  moment  she  felt  as  if  she  were  going  to  faint 
with  the  rush  of  emotions  which  swept  suddenly  over 
her. 

Of  her  brother,  personally,  she  remembered  nothing. 
She  only  knew  that  she  had  one;  that  in  some  way  he 
annoyed  and  worried  her  mother;  that  he  was  not  highly 
esteemed  by  the  Forrests,  and  that  he  was  probably 
dead.  Latterly,  however,  since  she  had  gone  out  into 
the  world  alone  to  care  for  herself,  she  had  often  thought 


305  HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

of  him,  and  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  have  a  brother 
who  was  good,  and  kind,  and  true,  and  who  would  care 
for  her  as  brothers  sometimes  care  for  their  sisters.  Oc- 
casionally, too,  she  had  amused  herself  with  fancying 
how  he  would  look  if  he  were  alive,  and  how  he  would 
treat  her.  But  she  had  never  dreamed  of  any  one  as 
handsome,  and  polished,  and  elegant  as  Dr.  Matthewson, 
who  signed  himself  her  brother,  and  had  filled  three  or 
four  sheets  of  paper  with  what  he  had  to  say.  Very 
eagerly  she  singled  out  the  first  sheet  and  began  : 

"  DEAR  SISTER  ROSSIE  : — You  will  pardon  me  for  not 
addressing  you  as  Miss  Hastings,  or  even  Rosamond, 
when  I  tell  you  I  am  your  brother,  and  have  always 
thought  of  you  as  Rossie,  the  little  girl  who,  I  suppose, 
does  not  remember  me,  and  who,  perhaps,  has  not  been 
taught  to  think  of  me  very  pleasantly.  But,  Rossie,  I  am 
a  changed  man,  or  I  would  not  present  myself  to  you,  a 
pure,  innocent  girl,  and  ask  for  sympathy  and  love.  I 
do  not  believe  you  care  to  hear  all  the  events  of  my  life 
in  detail,  and  so  I  shall  not  narrate  them,  but  of  a  few 
things  I  must  speak,  in  order  that  we  may  rightly  un- 
derstand each  other.  And  first,  your  mother.  I  was  a 
spoiled,  wayward  boy  of  sixteen  when  she  came  to  us, 
and  I  was  prejudiced  against  her  by  an  aunt  of  mine, 
who,  I  think  now,  wanted  my  father  herself.  A  step- 
mother was  to  me  the  worst  of  all  evils,  and  I  thought  it 
was  manly  to  tease  and  worry  her,  while  I  blush  to  say 
my  father  also  treated  her  so  shamefully  that  at  last  she 
fled  from  him,  as  you  know,  and  took  refuge  at  the  For- 
rest House,  where  she  finally  died. 

"  I  was  there  once  to  see  her,  and  as  you  may  not 
have  heard  the  particulars  of  that  visit,  and  I  wish  to 
keep  back  nothing  you  ought  to  know,  I  will  tell  you 
about  it." 

Then  followed  a  pretty  truthful  account  of  the  en- 
counter with  Everard,  the  cowhiding,  and  the  vow  of 
revenge,  after  which  the  doctor  spoke  of  his  subsequent 
career,  his  change  of  name,  his  sudden  conversion  at  a 
camp-meeting,  his  life  as  a  clergyman  in  Clarence,  his 
back-sliding,  and  lapse  into  his  former  evil  ways,  his  few 


HOW    THE     GAME     WAS    PLATED.  307 

months'  study  as  a  physician,  his  first  trip  to  Europe, 
and  at  last  his  sojourn  for  the  summer  in  Holburton, 
where  he  met  Everard  Forrest  again,  and  was  asked  by 
Josephine  to  take  the  part  of  priest  in  the  play  called 
"  Mock  Marriage." 

"Then  it  was,"  he  wrote,  "  that  the  devil  entered  into 
me  and  whispered,  *  Now  is  your  hour  for  revenge  on  the 
stripling  who  dared  lay  his  hand  on  you.'  From  all  I 
could  learn  of  the  Forrests,  or  rather,  of  the  judge,  I 
guessed  that  he  would  rebel  hotly  against  a  penniless 
bride  in  Miss  Fleming's  social  position,  and  that  nothing 
could  be  more  disastrous  for  Everard  than  such  a  mar- 
riage ;  and  yet  I  aided  and  abetted  it,  and  took  care  that 
it  should  be  altogether  binding,  and  so  gained  my  mean 
revenge,  for  which  I  have  been  sorry  a  thousand  times, — 
yes,  more  than  that  ;  and  if  I  could  undo  the  work  of 
that  night  I  would  do  it  gladly.  But  I  cannot,  and 
others  suffer  the  consequences.  You  see  I  am  not  igno- 
rant of  the  manner  in  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Forrest  live, 
and  I  am  sorry  for  them  both,  and  am  laying  bare  my 
heart  to  you  that  you  may  know  exactly  the  kind  of 
brother  you  have  found;  and  that,  however  bad  he  may 
have  been,  he  is  a  different  man  now,  or  he  would  never 
intrude  himself  upon  you. 

"  On  my  first  interview  with  Everard  in  Holburton, 
I  managed  to  get  him  to  speak  of  you,  and  I  half  re- 
solved to  seek  you  and  claim  you  as  my  own.  But  a 
sense  of  unworthiness  kept  me  back.  I  was  not  a  fitting 
guardian  for  a  girl  like  you,  and  so  I  still  kept  silence, 
and  after  a  time  went  to  Europe  again,  where  I  remained 
until  quite  recently,  and  where,  by  a  long  and  dangerous 
illness,  I  was  brought  to  a  realization  of  my  sins,  and 
resolved  to  lead  a  new  life.  Naturally,  one  of  the  first 
and  strongest  desires  of  my  new  life  was  to  find  you. 
Mrs.  Forrest,  who  wrote  to  me  occasionally,  had  told 
me  that  you  had  left  the  Forrest  House,  of  which  you 
were  the  lawful  heir;  and  as  my  health  required  a  warm 
climate,  I  came  first  to  Florida,  after  my  return  to 
America,  intending,  in  the  spring,  to  spare  no  pains  to 
find  you.  The  rest  you  know. 

"!A.nd  now,  Rossie,  will  you  take  me  for  a  brother? 


308  HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

If  so,  please  leave  a  line  at  the  office,  telling  me  where  I 
can  see  you  and  when,  and  in  all  the  world  there  will  be 
no  one  so  happy  as  your  affectionate  brother, 

"  JOHN  MATTHEWSON,  ne   HASTINGS." 

Rossie  was  not  as  strong  as  when  she  was  a  child, 
and  any  over-fatigue  or  unusual  excitement  was  sure  to 
be  followed  by  a  nervous  headache,  which  sometimes 
lasted  two  or  three  days  ;  and  as  she  read  this  letter  she 
felt  a  cold,  clammy  sweat  breaking  out  in  the  palms  of 
her  hands,  while  a  cutting  pain  in  her  head  warned  her 
that  her  old  enemy,  neuralgia,  was  threatening  an  attack. 
That  she  believed  every  word  of  the  letter  need  hardly 
be  said,  for  hers  was  a  nature  to  believe  everything,  and 
it  made  her  very  happy  to  know  that  the  brother  who 
heretofore  had  been  to  her  only  a  myth,  was  found  at 
last,  and  such  a  brother,  too.  Then  the  question  arose 
as  to  how  Everard  would  receive  this  man  who  had  pur- 
posely done  him  so  great  a  wrong.  Would  he  for- 
give him  for  her  sake,  and  believe  in  his  repentance? 
She  should  write  to  him  the  next  day  and  tell  him  all 
about  it,  and  her  heart  throbbed  with  a  new  and  keen 
delight  at  the  thought  of  some  one  to  care  for  her,  some 
one  to  lean  upon  and  advise  her  and  help  her  with  that 
dreadful  Forrest  estate.  And  then  her  busy  little  brain 
plunged  into  the  future,  and  began  to  wonder  where  they 
should  live  and  how,  for  that  she  should  live  with  her 
brother  she  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt.  Her  place  was 
with  him,  and  she  should  try  so  hard  to  make  him  happy, 
and  keep  him  in  the  new  way  wherein  he  was  beginning 
to  walk.  In  this  state  of  mind  it  was  impossible  to 
sleep,  and  when  at  last  morning  came  it  found  her  wake- 
ful and  unrefreshed,  with  dark  rings  about  her  eyes,  and 
so  severe  a  pain  in  her  temples  and  the  back  of  her  neck 
that  to  go  down  to  breakfast  was  impossible.  She  had 
barely  strength  to  dress  herself  and  lie  down  upon  the 
couch,  where  Mrs.  Andrews  found  her,  after  having 
waited  some  time  for  her  appearance. 

Very  rapidly  and  briefly  Rosamond  told  her  the  good 
news,  which  Mrs.  Andrews  accepted  readily.  She  had 
heard  before  that  Miss  Hastings  had  a  brother,  if  he 
were  not  dead,  and  having  met  the  doctor  the  previous 


HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED.  309 

day  and  been  much  prepossessed  with  him,  as  strangers 
always  were,  she  rejoiced  with  her  young  friend,  but 
advised  her  to  wait  until  her  head  was  better  before  she 
risked  the  excitement  of  an  interview.  But  this  Rossie 
could  not  do.  She  should  never  be  better  till  she  had 
seen  her  brother,  she  said,  and  a  message  was  accord- 
ingly sent  him  to  the  effect  that  Rossie  would  see  him  in 
her  room  whenever  he  chose  to  come. 

The  doctor  did  not  wait  a  moment,  and  was  soon  at 
Rossie's  side,  bending  over  her,  and  telling  her  not  to 
allow  herself  to  be  agitated  in  the  least,  but  to  lie 
quietly  upon  her  pillow  and  let  him  do  most  of  the  talk- 
ing. 

In  all  the  world  there  was  hardly  a  more  accomplished 
and  fascinating  hypocrite  than  Dr.  Matthewson,  and  so 
well  did  he  use  his  powers  and  art  that  if  Rossie  had  had  any 
distrust  of  him  or  his  sincerity  it  would  have  been  entirely 
swept  away  during  the  half  hour  he  spent  with  her,  now 
talking  of  himself  as  he  used  to  be  with  great  regret,  and 
of  himself  as  he  was  now  with  great  humility  ;  now  tell- 
ing how  glad  he  was  to  find  his  little  sister,  and  then 
complimenting  her  in  a  way  which  could  not  fail  to  be 
gratifying  to  any  woman.  Then  he  spoke  of  her  health, 
and  was  sorry  to  find  her  so  frail  and  delicate,  and 
asked  her  many  questions  about  herself,  while  he  held 
her  hand  and  felt  her  pulse  professionally.  "  Had  she 
ever  thought  her  heart  at  all  diseased,  or  that  her  lungs 
were  affected  ?"  he  asked  ;  adding,  quickly,  as  he  saw  the 
sudden  start  she  gave  : 

"  Oh,  don't  be  frightened,  and  conclude  you  have 
either  consumption  or  heart  disease.  I  only  asked 
because  some  members  of  our  family  far  back  died  with 
a  heart  difficulty,  and  if  I  remember  right  your  mother 
had  consumption.  But  we  must  not  let  you  have  either 
of  them.  You  do  not  seem  to  have  a  great  amount  of 
vitality.  Are  you  never  stronger  than  now,  and  do  these 
headaches  occur  very  often  ?" 

He  had  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  and  with  the  other 
was  stroking  her  head  and  hair,  while  she  answered  that 
nothing  ailed  her  except  the  headache  to  which  she  had 
been  subject  all  her  life,  and  a  predisposition  to  sore 
throat  whenever  she  took  cold. 


310  HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  see,"  and  the  doctor  looked  very  wise. 
"Bronchial  trouble,  no  doubt,  aggravated  by  our  dread- 
ful American  climate.  Excuse  me,  mignonne,  if  I  con- 
fess to  being  more  than  half  a  European.  I  have  lived 
abroad  so  much  that  I  greatly  prefer  being  there,  and 
know  the  climate  is  better  for  me.  Some  day  not  far 
distant  we  must  go  there  together,  you  and  I,  and  I'll 
take  such  care  of  you  that  people  will  hardly  know  you 
when  you  come  back.  I'll  have  some  color  in  these  white 
cheeks,  though  I  don't  believe  I  could  improve  the  eyes." 

It  was  the  great  desire  of  Rossie's  life  to  go  to 
Europe  some  day,  and  she  assented  to  all  her  brother 
said,  and  wrote  to  Everard  immediately  after  her  inter- 
view with  the  doctor,  and  told  him  of  her  brother,  and 
what  a  good,  noble  man  he  had  become. 

Then,  as  carefully  and  gently  as  possible,  she  spoke 
of  the  wrong  he  had  done  to  Everard,  and  for  which  he 
was  so  very  sorry. 

"  I  do  not  suppose  you  can  ever  like  him  as  I  do," 
she  wrote,  "  but  I  hope  you  will  try  to  be  friends  with 
him  for  my  sake." 

Accompanying  this  letter  was  one  from  the  doctor  him- 
self, couched  in  the  most  conciliatory  terms,  full  of  regret 
for  the  past  and  strong  in  good  intentions  for  the  future. 

"  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  be  friends  with  you  for 
Rossie's  sake,  if  for  no  other,"  he  wrote  in  conclusion. 
"  She  holds  you  in  higher  esteem  than  any  living  being  ; 
so  let  her  plead  for  me  ;  and  when  we  meet,  as  we  some- 
times must,  or  Rossie  be  very  unhappy,  let  it  be  at  least 
with  the  semblance  of  friendship." 

Everard's  first  impulse  on  receiving  these  letters  was 
to  go  to  Florida  at  once  and  wrest  Rossie  from  the 
fangs  of  the  wolf,  as  he  stigmatized  the  doctor,  in  whom 
he  had  no  faith. 

"  I  cannot  forgive  him,"  he  said.  "  I  will  not,  though 
he  were  ten  times  her  brother  ;  and  I  distrust  him,  too, 
notwithstanding  his  protestations  of  reform." 

But  he  could  not  write  this  to  Rossie.  He  said  to 
her  in  his  letter  that  if  her  brother  was  all  she  repre- 
sented him  to  be,  he  was  glad  for  her  sake  that  she  had 
found  him,  and  that  he  hoped  always  to  be  friendly  with 
her  friends  and  those  that  were  kind  to  her. 


HOW    THE    GAME    WAS    PLATED.  811 

"  But  if  he  were  the  archangel  himself,"  he  added, 
"  I  should  find  it  hard  to  forgive  him  for  having  removed 
from  my  grasp  what  I  miss  more  and  more  every  day  of 
my  life,  and  long  for  with  an  intensity  which  masters 
my  reason  and  drives  me  almost  tcf  despair.  But  what- 
ever I  may  feel  toward  him,  Rossie,  I  shall  treat  him  well 
for  your  sake,  and  if  you  can  find  any  comfort  in  his 
society,  take  it,  and  be  as  happy  as  you  can." 

To  Dr.  Matthewson  he  wrote  in  a  different  strain. 
He  did  not  believe  in  the  man,  and  though  he  made  an 
effort  to  be  civil  he  showed  his  distrust  and  aversion  in 
every  line.  If  the  doctor  had  repented,  he  was  glad  of 
it,  but  wished  the  repentance  had  come  in  time  to  have 
saved  him  from  a  life-long  trouble.  A  boy's  cowhiding 
was  a  small  matter  for  a  man  to  avenge  so  terribly,  he 
said,  and  then  added  : 

"  It  is  no  news  to  me  that  you  are  John  Hastings, 
Rossie's  half-brother.  I  knew  that  long  ago,  but  kept  it 
to  myself,  as  I  did  not  wish  Rossie  to  know  how  much 
of  my  unhappiness  I  owed  to  her  half-brother.  Wholly 
truthful  and  innocent,  she  thinks  others  are  the  same, 
and  if  you  tell  her  you  are  a  saint  she  will  believe  it  im- 
plicitly until  some  act  of  your  own  proves  the  contrary. 
She  is  very  happy  in  your  society,  and  I  shall  do  nothing 
to  make  her  less  so,  but  don't  ask  me  to  indorse  you  cor- 
dially, as  if  nothing  had  ever  happened.  The  thing  is 
impossible.  If  we  meet  I  shall  treat  you  well  for  Ros- 
sie's sake,  and  shall  not  seek  to  injure  you  so  long  as  you 
are  kind  and  true  to  her,  but  if  you  harm  a  hair  of  Ros- 
sie's head,  or  bring  her  to  any  sorrow,  as  sure  as  there  is 
a  heaven  above  us,  I'll  pursue  you  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  to  be  even  with  you." 

There  was  an  amused  smile  on  Dr.  Matthewson's  face 
as  he  read  this  letter,  which  showed  him  so  plainly  what 
Everard's  opinion  of  him  was.  A  meaning  smile,  too,  it 
was,  and  one  which  his  enemy  would  hardly  have  cared 
to  see. 

"  So  ho  !  the  young  man  threatens  me,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "I  am  glad  he  has  shown  his  hand,  though  it 
was  foolish  in  him  to  do  so,  and  proves  that  he  is  not 
well  up  in  fencing.  I  wonder  what  he  wrote  to  Rossie  ; 
and  if  she  will  show  me  the  letter." 


312  HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

Rossie  could  not  show  it  to  him,  but  when  next  they 
met  in  her  room,  she  said  to  him  : 

"  I  have  heard  from  Everard,  and  he  says  that  he  is 
glad  I  am  so  happy  with  you,  and  he  will  be  friendly 
with  you  always,  and  I  do  so  hope  you  will  like  each 
other.  Have  you,  too,  heard  from  him  ?" 

The  doctor  laughed  a  low,  musical  laugh,  and  draw- 
ing his  sister  to  him,  said: 

"  You  cannot  dissemble  worth  a  cent.  Don't  you 
suppose  I  know  that  Everard's  letter  to  you  was  not  all 
you  hoped  it  to  be.  He  finds  it  hard  to  forgive  me  for 
having  deprived  him  of  something  which  his  maturer 
manhood  tells  him  is  sweeter,  more  precious,  and  far 
more  to  be  desired  than  the  object  of  his  boyish  passion. 
And  I  cannot  blame  him.  I  am  as  sorry  as  he,  in  a  dif- 
ferent way,  of  course,  and  you " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  Rossie  broke  away 
from  him,  and  burying  her  face  in  the  cushions  of  the 
couch  on  which  they  were  sitting,  burst  into  an  uncon- 
trollable fit  of  weeping. 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  as  he  made  an  effort  to  soothe  her. 
"  Don't  speak  to  me,  please.  I  must  have  it  out  now.  I 
have  kept  it  back  so  long.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  died  when 
I  was  a  little  girl,  and  before  I  grew  to  be  a  woman, 
with  a  woman's  love,  which  I  must  fight  all  my  life,  and 
never  know  a  moment  of  absolute  rest  and  quiet.  Oh, 
why  did  you  do  it  ?  Why  did  you  separate  me  from  my 
love  ?  for  he  is  mine,  and  I  am  his.  I  was  everything  to 
him;  he  was  everything  to  me.  Oh,  Everard,  just  this 
once  I  will  say  out  what  I  feel.  Hove  you, — Hove  you  ; 
and  I  cannot  help  it.  I  know  it  is  wicked,  and  try  to 
put  it  away.  I  bury  it  out  of  my  sight  ;  I  trample  on 
it ;  I  stamp  upon  it  ;  I  think  I  have  the  mastery  over  it, 
and  on  the  slightest  provocation  it  springs  into  life  more 
vigorous  than  ever,  and  I  cannot  conquer  it." 

She  had  said  all  she  had  to  say,  but  she  kept  on 
sobbing  piteously,  like  one  in  mortal  pain  ;  and,  hard- 
hearted, and  utterly  unprincipled,  and  selfish  as  he  was, 
Dr.  Matthewson  could  not  be  wholly  indifferent  to  a 
grief  such  as  he  had  never  witnessed  but  once,  and  that 
was  years  ago  ;  but  she  who  wept  before  him  then  was  a 
fair-haired  German  girl  asking  reparation  for  the  ruin  he 


HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED.  313 

had  wrought.  He  had  laughed  at  her,  and  telling  her 
she  would  make  a  splendid  queen  of  tragedy,  had  bidden 
her  go  upon  the  stage  and  achieve  her  fortune,  then 
come  to  him,  and  perhaps  he  would  make  terms  with 
her.  But  Rossie  was  a  different  creature.  She  knew 
nothing  of  such  girls  as  Yula  Van  Eisner.  She  was  Ros- 
sie, heiress  of  the  Forrest  property, — and  he  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  several  times,  and  blew  his  nose  vig- 
orously, and  made  a  feint  of  wiping  his  eyes  with  his 
perfumed  handkerchief,  and  then  came  and  stood  by  her, 
and  putting  his  hand  on  her  bowed  head,  said  to  her  : 

"Don't,  Rossie,  give  way  like  this,  or  you  will  drive 
me  mad,  knowing,  as  I  do,  that  I  have  in  one  sense 
caused  your  sorrow.  If  I  could  undo  it,  I  would,  but  I 
cannot.  There  is,  however,  a  way  out  of  it.  Have  you 
ever  thought  how  easily  he  might  get  a  divorce,  which 
would  make  him  free?" 

"  He  would  not  be  free  ;"  and,  lifting  up  her  head, 
Rossie  flashed  her  bright  black  eyes  upon  him  indig- 
nantly. "  The  Bible  would  not  recognize  him  as  free, 
neither  would  I,  and  you  must  not  speak  of  such  a  thing 
to  me." 

"'Then  I  will  not,"  he  answered,  still  more  sooth- 
ingly ;  "but  Rossie,  it  is  folly  to  give  way  like  this, 
though  for  this  once  I  am  glad  you  did.  For  now  I  un- 
derstand better  the  cause  of  these  pale  cheeks  and  irreg- 
ular pulse,  and  am  sure  you  need  entire  change  of  air 
and  scene,  such  as  you  can  only  find  in  Europe,  where  we 
are  going  in  the  spring.  Think  of  a  summer  in  Switzer- 
land among  the  glorious  Alps.  I  know  every  rock,  and 
chasm,  and  winding  path  there,  and  shall  be  so  happy  in 
seeing  you  enjoy  them." 

He  was  speaking  very  kindly  to  her  now,  and  she 
gradually  grew  calm,  and  listened  while  he  talked  of 
Europe  and  what  they  should  see  there,  for  he  quite 
decided  that  they  would  go  in  the  spring,  and  as  nothing 
in  the  way  of  travel  could  suit  Rossie  better,  she  told 
Mrs.  Andrews  the  next  day  of  the  plan  and  wrote  of  it 
to  Everard,  ignoring  altogether  his  right  as  her  guardian 
to  be  consulted.  But  Everard  did  not  resent  it,  though 
for  a  time  he  felt  half  tempted  to  say  that  she  should 
not  go,  for  a  strong  presentiment  of  evil  swept  over  him 

14 


314  HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

with  such  force  as  to  keep  him  awake  the  entire  night. 
But  with  the  morning  his  nervous  fears  subsided,  and  he 
could  see  no  reasonable  objection  to  Rossie's  going  for 
the  summer  to  Europe  with  her  brother,  whose  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  manners,  and  customs,  and  language 
of  the  different  countries  must  make  him  a  very  pleas- 
ant traveling  companion. 

Rossie  had  written  that  she  should  go  directly  from 
Florida  to  New  York,  and  so  Everard  wrote  her  his 
farewell  letter,  and  sent  her  a  draft  for  five  hundred 
dollars,  which  he  said  she  might  need,  as  she  would  not 
care  to  be  altogether  dependent  upon  her  brother. 
Rossie's  first  impulse  was  to  return  the  draft,  but  Dr. 
Matthewson  advised  her  to  keep  it  and  not  wound  Ever- 
ard by  returning  it  to  him. 

So  Rossie  kept  it,  or  rather,  gave  it  to  her  brother, 
and  sent  a  letter  of  thanks  to  Everard  and  another  to 
Bee,  telling  her  of  her  intended  journey,  and  bidding 
her  good-by. 

With  that  subtle  and  mysterious  foresight  with  which 
women  seem  to  be  gifted,  and  for  which  there  is  no  ex- 
planation, Beatrice  anticipated  danger  at  once,  though 
in  what  form  she  could  not  define.  She  only  knew  that 
she  wished  Rossie  was  not  going  away  alone  with  Dr. 
Matthewson,  but  she  kept  her  fears  from  Everard,  and 
wrote  to  Rossie  that  she  should  be  in  New  York  to  see 
her  off.  And  when  Rossie  stood  at  last  on  the  deck  of 
the  Oceanic,  Bee  was  there  and  Everard,  too,  taking  his 
last  look  at  the  face  which  would  haunt  him  in  the  years 
to  come,  as  the  faces  of  the  dead  haunt  us  when  we  feel 
that  by  some  act  of  ours  interposed  in  time  we  might 
have  saved  the  life  dearer  than  our  own.  Beatrice  had 
said  to  him: 

"  I  am  going  to  New  York  to  see  Rossie.  Will  you 
go  with  me  ?"  and  without  a  moment's  reflection  he  went, 
and  spent  one  blissful  day  with  her,  a  day  never  to  be 
forgotten,  when  he  drove  with  her  in  the  Park,  and 
watched  the  constantly  changing  expression  of  her  sweet 
face,  which  had  grown  so  pale  and  thin  that  he  was  more 
than  half  reconciled  to  let  her  go,  hoping  much  from 
the  sea  air  and  the  new  life  she  would  lead.  To  the  doc- 
tor he  was  polite  and  courteous,  and  an  ordinary  observer 


HOW    THE    GAME    WAS    PLAYED.  315 

might  have  thought  them  the  best  of  friends,  so  that 
Rossie  was  satisfied,  and  would  have  been  quite  happy  if 
she  could  have  forgotten  the  distance  which  would  so 
soon  intervene  between  them. 

On  the  whole  Beatrice  was  favorably  impressed  with 
Dr.  Matthewson,  who  was  so  kind  to  Rossie  and  so 
thoughtful  for  her  that  she  dismissed  her  fears,  and  half 
wished  she,  too,  were  going  with  them.  She  said  as 
much  to  Rossie  when  they  stood  upon  the  deck  waiting 
for  the  order  to  be  given  for  all  visitors  to  leave. 

"  Oh,  I'd  give  the  world  if  you  were,"  Rossie  cried. 
"  I  should  not  feel  as  I  do, — afraid,  somehow,  as  if  I  was 
never  to  return, — never  to  see  you  again,  or  Everard." 

She  was  holding  his  hand  in  both  hers  as  she  spoke, 
and  in  that  moment  of  farewell  she  forgot  everything 
except  the  presentiment  that  she  was  going  from  him, 
forever  ;  that  their  parting  was  final  ;  and  her  tears  fell 
like  rain  as  she  bent  over  and  kissed  his  hand,  and  said  : 

"  Good-by,  Everard,  good-by,  and  if  it  should  be  for- 
ever, you'll  never  forget  me,  will  you  ?"  These  were  her 
parting  words,  which,  in  the  after  time,  he  said  over 
and  over  again,  with  a  bitterer,  heavier  pain  than  that 
he  felt  when  with  Bee  he  stood  upon  the  Jersey  shore, 
and  watched  the  Oceanic  sailing  down  the  bay. 

And  so  Rossie  passed  from  their  sight,  and  the  next 
they  heard  from  her  she  had  reached  Liverpool,  but  was 
greatly  fatigued  with  the  voyage,  during  which  she  had 
been  sick  most  of  the  time.  It  was  only  a  few  lines  she 
wrote  to  Everard,  to  tell  him  she  was  safe. 

"  When  I  am  stronger,"  she  said,  "  I  will  send  you 
and  Beatrice  a  long  letter,  and  tell  you  everything.  Now 
I  can  only  sit  by  my  window  and  look  out  upon  the  busy 
streets  of  Liverpool  and  St.  George's  Hall  right  opposite, 
and  occasionally  there  comes  over  me  a  feeling  of  some- 
thing like  homesickness  when  I  remember  how  far  I  am 
from  America  and  the  friends  who  never  seemed  half  so 
dear  to  me  as  now,  when  I  am  so  widely  separated  from 
them." 

The  next  he  heard  from  Rossie  she  was  in  London, 
delightfully  located  in  lodgings  near  Regent's  Park, 
and  playing  keep  house,  while  her  brother  was  the  best 
and  kindest  man  in  the  world,  and  she  was  very  happy. 


316  HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED. 

Then  they  went  to  Switzerland,  and  Rossie's  letters 
were  full  of  the  enthusiastic  delight  she  felt  with  every- 
thing around  her.  Of  her  health  she  seldom  spoke,  and 
when  she  did,  it  was  not  altogether  satisfactory.  Some- 
times she  was  so  tired  that  she  had  kept  her  room  for 
two  or  three  days,  and  again  a  headache,  or  sore  throat, 
or  cold,  had  confined  her  to  the  house  for  nearly  a  week; 
but  she  was  very  happy  among  the  Alps,  and  wished 
that  Beatrice  and  Everard  were  there  with  her  to  enjoy 
what  she  was  enjoying.  As  the  summer  advanced,  how- 
ever, her  letters  were  not  so  frequent,  and  the  doctor 
nometimes  wrote  for  her,  saying  she  was  not  feeling  well, 
.<nd  had  made  him  her  amanuensis.  They  were  not  to  be 
alarmed,  he  said  ;  it  was  only  a  slight  heart  difficulty, 
induced  by  the  mountain  air,  which  often  affected  tour- 
ists in  that  way.  He  should  take  her  to  Southern  France 
early  in  the  autumn,  and  then  to  Italy  as  the  season  ad- 
vanced, and  should  not  return  to  America  till  spring. 

When  Everard  read  this  letter  there  came  over  him 
again  a  great  horror  of  some  impending  evil  threatening 
Rossie,  and  do  what  he  might  he  could  not  shake  it  off. 
He  thought  of  it  by  day  and  dreamed  of  it  by  night, 
and  could  he  have  found  any  good  excuse  for  doing  so, 
he  would  have  started  for  Europe,  and  kept  near  the 
girl,  who,  it  seemed  to  him,  was  in  some  imminent  peril, 
though  of  what  nature  he  could  not  guess. 

Some  time  in  November  a  letter  came  from  Dr.  Mat- 
thewson,  dated  at  Nice,  where  he  said  they  had  been  for 
two  or  three  weeks,  and  where,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  I 
hope  our  dear  invalid  is  improving.  Switzerland  was 
not  the  place  for  her,  and  she  seemed  to  grow  weaker 
every  day  she  staid  there,  so  I  hastened  back  to  Paris, 
and  then  came  here,  where  she  seems  very  happy,  but  is 
weak  as  an  infant.  She  complains  of  nothing  but  weari- 
ness, and  cannot  get  rested.  Of  course  I  have  the  best 
medical  advice  for  her,  and  everything  is  done  which 
can  be  to  arrest  the  disease  and  give  her  some  strength. 
The  physicians  have  forbidden  her  reading  or  writing, 
even  short  letters,  and  I  must  do  it  for  her  for  the  pres- 
ent. I  hope  that  neither  you  nor  Miss  Belknap  will  be 
needlessly  distressed,  for  I  assure  you  there  is  no  imme- 
danger,  and  with  proper  care,  such  as  she  has  now, 


HOW    THE    GAME     WAS    PLAYED.  317 

she  will,  I  think,  be  quite  able  to  return  to  America  in 
the  spring.  She  is  calling  to  me  now  from  her  chair  by 
the  window,  and  says  .  '  Tell  them  not  to  be  troubled 
about  me  ;  that  I  walked  too  much  in  Switzerland  and 
am  not  rested  yet,  but  am  so  happy  here  in  beautiful 
Nice,  looking  out  upon  the  blue  Mediterranean.'" 

After  this  letter  Rossie  never  wrote  again,  and  though 
Everard  and  Beatrice  wrote  frequently  to  her,  asking  her 
to  send  them  a  line,  if  nothing  more,  Dr.  Matthewson  al- 
ways replied,  "  She  is  forbidden  to  write  even  so  much 
as  her  name ';"  and  so  the  fall  and  winter  crept  on,  and 
Rossie  was  first  in  Venice,  then  in  Florence,  and  then  in 
Rome.  And  then  Dr.  Matthewson  wrote  one  day  to 
Everard,  saying  that  Rossie  did  not  know  of  this  letter, 
neither  did  he  wish  her  to  know,  as  it  would  only  trouble 
her  and  retard  her  recovery,  but  to  be  brief,  he  found 
himself  straitened  for  money  just  now,  physicians 
charged  so  abominably  in  Europe,  and  on  account  of 
Rossie's  illness  their  expenses  were,  of  course,  much 
heavier  than  they  would  otherwise  have  been,  and  if 
Everard  would  make  an  advance  for  Rossie  of  a  few 
thousand  dollars,  he"  should  be  very  glad.  He  was  in- 
tending to  leave  Rome  early  in  the  spring,  and  go  to 
Germany  to  a  famous  cure,  where  the  prices  were  very 
high. 

Double  the  amount  of  money  asked  for  was  placed  at 
the  doctor's  disposal,  and  when  that  night  Everard  went 
to  Elm  Park  to  call  upon  Beatrice,  he  said,  in  reply  to 
her  inquiries  for  news  from  Rossie  : 

"  We  shall  never  see  her  again." 


318  ALAS,    POOH    ROSSIE! 

CHAPTER  XLII. 
ALAS,     POOR    EOSSIE  ! 


T  had  been  a  long,  dreary  year  to  Everard, 
and  when  the  anniversary  came  round  of  the 
day  when  Rossie  sailed,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  lived  in  that  year  more  than  a 
hundred  lives.  And  yet,  in  a  business  point 
of  view  he  had  been  very  prosperous,  and  money  was 
beginning  to  be  more  plenty  with  him  than  formerly, 
though  he  could  not  lay  by  much,  for  Josephine  made 
heavy  demands  upon  him.  When  she  left  Florida  she 
did  not  return  to  Rothsay,  where  she  knew  she  was 
looked  upon  with  distrust  by  the  better  class.  It  was  a 
dull,  poky  hole,  she  said,  and  she  should  enjoy  herself 
better  traveling,  so  she  traveled  from  place  to  place 
during  the  summer  and  autumn,  and  in  the  winter  went 
again  to  Florida, — but  early  in  the  spring  she  came  back 
to  the  Forrest  House,  where  she  lived  very  quietly,  and 
seemed  to  shun  rather  than  court  society.  She,  too, 
knew  of  Rossie's  failing  health,  for  she  heard  often  from 
the  doctor,  and  she  expressed  so  much  anxiety  for  her 
to  Beatrice  and  Everard,  hinting  that  they  did  not  know 
the  worst,  that  their  fears  were  increased,  and  suspense 
was  growing  intolerable,  when,  at  last,  one  morning  in 
May,  the  mail  brought  to  Everard  the  American  Register 
from  Paris,  directed  in  a  hand  he  had  never  seen  before. 
Evidently  it  was  sent  from  the  office,  and  probably 
had  in  it  the  whereabouts  of  some  of  his  friends  who 
were  traveling  in  Europe,  and  who  occasionally  for- 
warded him  a  paper  when  they  left  one  place  for  another. 
Mr.  Evarts  was  still  abroad,  and  Everard  ran  his  eye 
over  the  list  of  names  registered  in  different  places  to 
see  if  his  was  there,  for  that  the  paper  had  anything  to 
do  with  Rossie  he  never  dreamed.  Indeed,  she  was  not 
in  his  mind,  except  as  she  was  always  there,  in  a  general 
way,  and  so  the  shock  was  all  the  greater  and  more  ter- 
rible when  he  came  suddenly  upon  a  little  obituary 


ALAS,     POOX    RQSSIE!  319 

notice,  and  read,  with  wildly-throbbing  heart,  and  eyes 
which  felt  as  if  they  were  starting  from  their  sockets, 
so  great  was  the  pressure  of  blood  upon  his  brain  : 

"  Died,  on  the  evening  of  April  20th,  in  Haelder- 
Strauchsen,  Austria,  of  consumption  and  heart  disease, 
Miss  Rosamond  Hastings,  of  Rothsay,  Ohio,  U.  S.  A., 
aged  nineteen  years  and  ten  months.  Seldom  has  death 
snatched  any  one  more  lovely  in  person  and  character 
than  this  fair  young  girl,  who,  in  a  strange  land,  far 
from  home,  passed  peacefully  and  willingly  to  the  home 
above,  and  whose  last  words  to  her  weeping  brother 
were  :  '  Don't  cry  for  me,  and  tell  them  at  home  not  to 
be  sorry  either.  Heaven  is  as  near  me  here  in  Austria 
as  it  would  be  in  America,  and  I  am  so  glad  to  go.' " 

Everard  could  read  no  more,  and  throwing  the  paper 
from  him  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  for  a  few 
moments  gave  way  to  such  grief  as  men  seldom  feel,  and 
never  experience  but  once  in  a  life-time.  He  did  not 
weep  ;  his  pain  was  too  great  for  tears  ;  neither  did  any 
word  escape  his  livid  lips,  but  his  frame  shook  as  with 
an  ague  chill,  and  occasionally  a  long  drawn,  moaning 
sob  told  how  much  he  suffered,  while  great  drops  of 
sweat  gathered  thickly  upon  his  face,  and  in  the  palms 
of  his  hands.  No  other  blow  could  have  smitten  him  so 
heavily  as  he  was  smitten  now.  It  is  true  he  had  felt  a 
great  dread  lest  Rossie  should  die,  but  underlying 
that  was  always  the  hope  that  she  would  come  back 
again.  But  all  that  was  ended  now,  the  little  ray  of 
sunlight  on  his  horizon  had  set  in  gloom,  and  the  night 
lay  dark  and  heavy  around  him,  with  no  rift  in  the 
black  clouds,  no  light  in  the  future.  Rossie  was  dead, 
in  all  her  freshness  and  youthful  beauty  ;  Rossie,  who 
had  been  to  him  a  constant  source  of  pleasure  and  joy, 
since  he  first  took  her  in  his  arras,  a  tiny  little  girl,  and 
kissed  her  pretty  mouth  in  spite  of  her  remonstrance, 
"Bior  boys  like  oo  mustn't  tiss  nittle  dirls  like  me." 

He  had  kissed  her  many  times  since  as  his  sister, 
and  twice  with  all  the  intensity  of  a  lover's  burning  pas- 
sion, and  once  she  had  kissed  him  back,  arid  he  knew  just 
where  her  lips  had  touched  him,  and  fancied  he  felt  their 
pressure  again,  and  the  perfume  of  her  breath  upon  his 
cheek.  But,  alas,  she  was  dead,  and  the  Austrian  skies 


820  ALAS,     POOR    ROSSIE ! 

were  bending  above  her  grave  in  that  far-off  town  with 
the  strange-sounding  German  name,  which  he  had  not 
stopped  to  pronounce. 

"What  was  the  name  ?"  he  asked  himself,  speaking 
for  the  first  time  since  he  read  the  fatal  news,  and  reach- 
ing mechanically  for  the  paper  lying  open  at  his  feet. 

But  his  eyes  were  blood-shot  and  dim,  and  it  took 
him  some  time  to  spell  out,  letter  by  letter,  the  name 
Haelder-Strauchsen,  and  to  wonder  where  and  what  man- 
ner of  place  it  was  where  Rossie  died,  and  if  she  were 
lying  under  the  flowers  and  soft  green  turf  she  loved  so 
much  in  life,  and  if  he  should  ever  see  her  grave. 

"Yes,  please  Heaven!"  he  said,  "I'll  find  it  some 
day,  and  whisper  to  my  darling  sleeping  there  of  the 
love  it  will  be  no  sin  to  speak  of  then.  I'll  tell  her  how 
with  her  life  my  sun  of  hope  went  down,  never  to  rise 
again." 

Then,  glancing  once  more  at  the  paper,  he  read  a 
second  .time  "  Died,  April  20th,"  and  tried  to  recall 
what  he  was  doing  on  that  day,  the  darkest  and  saddest 
which  had  ever  dawned  for  him.  Making  allowance  for 
the  difference  in  time  between  Austria  and  Ohio,  it  was 
little  past  midday  with  him  when  it  was  evening  over 
there  where  Rosamond  was  dying,  and  with  a  shudder 
he  remembered  how  he  was  occupied  then.  Josephine 
had  written  him  a  note,  asking  him  to  come  to  the  For- 
rest House  as  soon  after  lunch  as  possible,  as  she  wished 
particularly  to  see  him.  As  he  walked  up  the  avenue  to 
the  house,  he  had  looked  around  sadly  and  regretfully  at 
the  different  objects  which  had  once  been  so  familiar  to 
him,  and  all  of  which  had  been  so  intimately  associated 
with  Rossie.  It  was  a  lovely  April  day,  and  beds  of 
hyacinths  and  erocusses  were  in  full  bloom,  and  the  daf- 
fodils and  double  narcissuses  were  showing  their  heads 
on  the  borders  near  the  door.  These  had  been  Rossie's 
special  care,  and  he  had  seen  her  so  often  working  among 
them,  trowel  in  hand,  with  her  high-necked,  long-sleeved 
apron  on,  that  he  found  himself  half-looking  for  her 
now. 

But  Rossie  was  not  there  ;  Rossie  was  dying  far 
away  over  the  sea;  and  only  Josephine  met  him  in  the 
hall,  civilly  and  haughtily,  as  had  been  her  manner  of 


ALAS,     POOH    ROSSIE!  321 

late,  and  taking  him  into  the  reception-room  where  Ros- 
sie  used  to  come  to  him  and  vex  him  so  with  her  long 
dress  and  new  airs  of  womanhood,  told  him  she  had  an 
invitation  to  visit  a  friend  who  lived  in  Indianapolis,  and 
who  had  invited  her  to  spend  the  entire  summer  with 
her,  and  she  wished  to  know  if  he  could  furnish  her  with 
money  for  the  necessary  outfit,  and  should  she  shut  up 
the  house  again  and  let  Agnes  go  to  Holburton,  or 
should  she  keep  it  open  and  leave  Agnes  in  charge. 

He  told  her  she  could  have  the  money,  and  said  that 
if  Agnes  wished  to  go  to  Holburton  they  might  as  well 
shut  up  the  house  for  the  summer;  and  then  he  left  her 
and  walked  rapidly  down  the  avenue,  thinking  of  the 
girl  whose  presence  seemed  to  fill  the  place  so  completely 
that  once,  when  a  bush  near  the  carriage  road  rustled 
suddenly  as  a  rabbit  darted  away,  he  stopped,  half 
expecting  to  see  a  figure  in  white  sun-bonnet  and  high- 
necked  apron  spring  out  at  him  just  as  Rossie  used  some- 
times to  do  when  she  was  a  little  child  and  he  a  well- 
grown  boy.  And  she  was  dying  then,  when  he  was 
thinking  so  much  of  her,  and  she  seemed  to  be  so  near 
him.  "Dying  then  and  dead  now,"  he  said,  to  himself, 
just  as  a  step  was  heard  outside,  and  Lawyer  Russell 
came  in,  stopping  short  in  alarm  at  the  white,  haggard 
face  which  Everard  lifted  to  him. 

"  What  is  it,  my  boy  ?  Are  you  sick  ?  What  has 
happened  ?  Tell  me,"  he  asked  ;  and  motioning  to  the 
paper  on  the  floor,  Everard  answered  sadly,  "  Rossie  is 
dead." 

"  Rossie  dead  !  No,  no,  Ned,  it  can't  be  true,"  Mr. 
Russell  said,  and  picking  up  the  paper  he  read  the 

Earagraph  indicated  by  Everard,  while  a  tear  moistened 
is  eyelids  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

The  old  man  had  been  very  fond  of  Rossie,  and  for  a 
few  moments  he  walked  up  and  down  the  little  back 
office  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  his  head  bent  down, 
then  stopping  suddenly  he  gave  vent  to  the  exclamation 
"  By  George  !"  uttered  in  such  a  tone  that  Everard 
looked  up  quickly  and  inquiringly,  and  said: 

"  What  is  it  ?     What's  the  "matter  ?" 

"  Ned,  my  boy,  look  here.  This  may  not  be  the  time 
nor  place  to  speak  of  such  a  thing,  but  hanged  if  I  can 

14* 


322  ALAS,     POOR    ROSSIE! 

help  it,"  the  lawyer  replied,  coming  close  to  Everard 
and  continuing,  "  I  take  it  that  you  considered  Rosa- 
mond Hastings  to  have  been  the  lawful  devisee  to  your 
father's  estate." 

"  I  know  she  was,"  Everard  said;  and  the  lawyer  went 
on  in  a  choking  voice  : 

"Poor  little  girl!  She  rebelled  against  it  hotly, 
and  would  have  deeded  it  to  you  if  she  had  lived  to 
come  of  age, — there's  nothing  surer  than  that.  But  you 
say  she's  dead,  and  she  not  twenty  yet  till  June,  and 
don't  you  see,  in  spite  of  fate,  the  estate  goes  to  her 
brother,  who  is  her  heir-at-law,  and  that's  what  I  call 
hard  on  you.  I  know  nothing  of  the  man  except  what 
you  have  told  me,  but  if  the  half  of  that  is  true,  he  is  a 
scamp,  and  will  run  through  the  property  in  a  quarter  of 
the  time  it  took  to  make  it.  Maybe,  though,  he  has 
some  kind  of  honor  about  hiirf,  and  if  Rossie  knew  she 
was  going  to  die,  you  may  be  sure  she  put  in  a  plea  for 
you,  and  perhaps  he  will  divide;  that's  the  best  you  can 
hope  for.  So  we  won't  despair  till  we  hear  from  the 
brother.  There's  another  mail  from  the  north  to-night. 
A  letter  may  come  by  that.  It  ought  to  have  been  here 
with  the  paper.  It's  a  bad  business  all  round, — very  bad. 
Rossie  dead;  poor  Rossie,  the  nicest  girl  and  most  sen- 
sible that  ever  was  born,  and  the  property  gone  to 
thunder !" 

The  old  man  was  a  good  deal  moved,  and  began  again 
to  walk  the  floor,  while  Everard  laid  his  head  upon  the 
table  in  a  half  stupefied  condition.  Not  that  he  then 
cared  especially  what  became  of  his  father's  money, 
though  the  thought  that  it  would  go  to  the  man  he  hated 
most  cordially  was  a  fresh  shock  to  his  nerves,  but  it 
was  nothing  to  losing  Rossie.  That  was  a  grief  which 
it  seemed  to  him  he  could  not  bear.  Certainly  he  could 
not  bear  it  alone.  He  must  tell  it  to  some  one  who 
would  not,  like  Lawyer  Russell,  talk  to  him  of  money  ; 
and  when  it  began  to  grow  dark,  so  that  no  one  could 
see  how  white  and  worn  he  was,  he  arose  and  walked 
slowly  up  to  Elm  Park,  sure  of  finding  a  ready  and 
hearty  sympathy  there. 

"  Oh,  Everard,  what  is  it  ?"  Beatrice  asked,  when 
she  first  met  him  and  saw  his  white,  haggard  face. 


TEE    LETTERS.  323 

He  answered  her  as  be  had  answered  Mr.  Russell, 
"Rossie  is  dead,"  and  then  seated  himself  again  in  the 
chair  from  which  he  had  arisen  when  she  came  in.  Bea- 
trice's tears  were  falling  like  rain,  but  Everard's  eyes 
were  as  dry  as  if  he  had  never  thought  to  weep,  and 
there  was  such  a  fearful  expression  of  anguish  on  his 
face  that  Beatrice  went  up  to  him,  and  laying  her  hand 
on  his  head,  said,  pityingly  : 

"  Oh,  Everard,  don't  look  like  that.  You  frighten 
me.  Cry,  can't  vou,  just  as  I  do  ?  Tears  would  do  you 
good." 

"  Cry  ?"  he  repeated.  "  How  can  I  cry  with  this 
band  like  red-hot  iron  around  my  heart,  forcing  it  up  to 
my  throat.  I  shall  never  cry  again,  or  laugh,  never. 
Bee,  I  know  you  think  me  foolish  and  wicked,  too,  per- 
haps ;  half  the  world  would  think  it,  and  say  I  had  no 
right  to  love  Rossie  as  I  do,  and  perhaps  I  have  not ;  but 
the  dearest,  sweetest  memory  of  my  life  is  the  memory 
of  what  she  was  to  me.  I  know  she  could  never  be 
mine.  I  gave  that  up  long  ago,  and  still  the  world  was 
pleasanter  to  me  because  she  was  in  it.  Oh,  Rossie,  my 
darling,  how  can  I  live  on  and  know  that  you  are  dead  ?" 

Then  Beatrice  did  not  attempt  to  comfort  him,  for 
she  knew  she  could  not,  but  she  sat  by  him  in  silence  un- 
til he  arose  and  went  away,  saying  to  her  at  parting,  and 
as  if  he  had  not  told  her  before,  "  Rossie  is  dead." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE    LETTERS. 

HE  next  day's  mail  brought  four  foreign  let- 
ters to  Rothsay, — one  for  Everard,  one  for 
Beatrice,  one  for  Josephine,  and  one  for 
Lawyer  Russell.  They  were  all  mailed  in 
Vienna,  within  two  days  of  each  other,  and 


the  one  addressed  to  Everard  was  as  follows  : 


324  THE    LETTERS. 

"  VIENNA,  April  — ,  — • — . 

"MR.  EVERARD  FORREST  : — Dear  Sir — I  hardly  know- 
why  I  write  to  you  first,  unless  it  is  because  I  know  that 
what  I  have  to  say  will  hurt  you  most ;  you,  who  I  think 
loved  ray  darling  Rossie.  You  have  perhaps  received 
the  American  Register  which  I  ordered  to  be  sent  you 
from  the  office  in  Paris  when  I  forwarded  the  notice,  and 
so  you  know  why  I  write  to  you  now.  I  have  written  to 
you  from  time  to  time  of  Rossie's  failing  health,  but 
never  told  you  as  bad  as  it  was,  for  I  did  not  wish  to 
alarm  you  unnecessarily,  and  kept  hoping  that  change  of 
scene  might  bring  the  improvement  I  so  greatly  desired. 
But  nothing  helped  her,  though  she  never  complained  of 
anything  but  fatigue.  '  So  tired,'  was  all  she  ever  said 
of  herself,  and  she  seemed  like  some  sweet  flower  fading 
gradually. 

"At  Haelder-Strauchsen,  a  little  town  -among  the 
Austrian  hills,  I  found  she  was  not  able  to  go  on  as  I 
wished  to  do,  to  Vienna,  and  so  we  staid  there,  where  she 
had  the  best  of  care.  Neither  of  us  thought  the  end  so 
near  until  the  last  day,  when  she  failed  rapidly,  and 
talked  of  you  and  Miss  Bel  knap,  and  told  me  to  tell  you 
how  much  she  loved  you  both,  and  that  you  were  not  to 
be  sorry  she  was  dead,  for  she  was  only  going  home,  and 
Heaven  was  as  near  Austria  as  it  was  to  America.  She 
was  so  beautiful  in  her  coffin,  with  a  smile  of  peace  upon 
her  face,  as  if  she  were  resting  at  last.  The  people  liter- 
ally covered  her  with  flowers,  and  strangers'  tears  fell 
fast  over  her  coffin  as  we  laid  her  in  the  grave. 

"  I  shall  come  to  America  soon,  and  will  tell  you  all 
you  wish  to  know  with  regard  to  her  sickness  and  death, 
and  the  many  things  she  said  of  you,  and  your  kindness  to 
her.  I  have  a  lock  of  her  hair  for  you  and  Miss  Bel- 
knap,  which  I  will  bring  with  me. 

"  And  now  good-by,  and  may  Heaven  pity  us  both 
and  make  us  better  men  for  having  had  our  Rossie  even 
for  so  short  a  time. 

"  Truly,  JOHX  MATTHEWSON." 

His  letter  to  Beatrice  was  in  substance  much  the  same 
as  the  one  to  Everard.  There  were  a  few  more  details 


THE    LETTERS.  325 

of  Rossie's  illness,  and  a  few  more  words  which  she  said 
at  the  last  of  her  friends  in  America. 

Josephine's  letter  no  one  saw,  and  if  they  had  few  in 
Rothsay  could  have  made  it  out,  for  it  was  written  in 
German,  which  Josephine  could  readily  understand.  One 
or  two  sentences,  however,  deserve  a  place  in  our  story, 
and  must  accordingly  be  given.  After  indulging  in  a 
good  deal  of  sentimentalism  with  regard  to  Rossie's 
death,  he  added  : 

"  But  as  every  cloud  has  its  silver  lining,  so  has  this 
dark  pall  which  has  overshadowed  me  so  heavily.  I  can 
now  offer  you  wealth  as  well  as  love,  and  this  I  dare  say 
you  will  not  ohject  to.  So,  if  you  are  not  already  at  In- 
dianapolis, go  there  at  once,  and  perhaps  I  will  join  you 
there  after  I  have  paid  my  respects  to  Mr.  Forrest." 

To  Lawyer  Russell  he  wrote  as  follows: 

"  VIEXNA,  April  — , . 

"  MR.  THOMAS  RUSSELL  : — Dear  Sir — I  have  com- 
municated to  Mr.  Forrest  the  sad  news  of  my  sister's 
death,  and  need  not  enter  into  the  particulars  with  you, 
•who  will  hear  them  from  him.  I  write  to  you  as  the 
family  lawyer,  on  another  subject  of  which  I  cannot  now 
speak  to  Mr.  Forrest,  lest  he  should  misconstrue  my 
motive,  and  think  me  anxious  and  premature  in  what  I 
am  about  to  say.  As  a  lawyer  of  large  experience  you 
have  undoubtedly  already  thought  of  the  fortune  willed 
to  Rossie  by  Judge  Forrest,  and  of  which  she  died  law- 
fully possessed,  and  you  have  probably  thought  what 
disposition  would  now  be  made  of  it.  You  know,  of 
course,  that  Rossie  always  protested  it  was  not  hers 
rightfully,  and  that  she  should  give  it  back  to  Everard 
as  soon  as  she  reached  her  majority.  I,  however,  who 
am  her  lawful  heir,  do  not  see  things  as  she  did,  and  am 
not  disposed  to  throw  away  the  good  the  gods  provide. 
Still  I  am  disposed  to  be  generous  and  make  over  to 
Everard  at  once  a  portion  of  the  property.  As  you  must 
know  more  about  the  estate  than  any  one  except  Everard 
himself,  I  w»;h  you  would  be  hunting  up  the  matter,  and 
getting  into  shape  some  statement  or  estimate  of  the 
value  of  the  property,  so  there  may  be  no  unnecessary 
delay  when  I  come  to  Rothsay,  as  I'shall  do  at  oiice.  I 


326  THE    LETTERS. 

have  in  New  York  a  friend  who  is  a  shrewd,  honest  law- 
yer, and  I  may  bring  him  with  me,  not  because  I  think 
there  will  be  any  trouble  or  opposition  to  my  claim,  but 
just  to  expedite  matters  and  get  them  settled  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"  Hoping  that  you  fully  understand  and  appreciate 
my  motives,  and  that  I  shall  find  in  you  a  friend  and 
adviser,  I  am,  yours  truly, 

"  JOHN  MATTHEWSON." 

The  old  lawyer  read  this  twice  ;  then,  with  his  hands 
under  his  coat-tails  and  his  glasses  on  the  top  of  his 
head,  walked  up  and  down  his  room,  muttering  to  him- 
self : 

'*  Just  what  I  told  Ned, — the  man  is  a  scoundrel,  and 
he  will,  with  all  his  fine  talk  of  generosity,  bring  a  New 
York  lawyer  here  to  see  to  it,  as  if  he  wouldn't  have  fair 
play  and  get  every  cent  his  due,  though  I'll  be  blamed  if 
I  wouldn't  take  advantage  of  any  quirk  or  loop-hole  to 
crawl  out  of,  if  there  was  one,  which  there  isn't.  As 
Rossie's  brother  he  is  her  heir,  of  course,  and  the  whole 
thing  goes  to  him,  for  I'll  bet  my  head  Ned  will  never 
take  a  dollar.  Poor  boy,  as  if  he  hadn't  trouble  enough 
with  the  loss  of  the  girl,  without  this  new  thing  to 
bother." 

And  if  ever  a  man  stood  in  need  of  sympathy  it  was 
Everard,  who  seemed  completely  crushed,  and  who 
looked  so  white  and  changed  that  even  his  best  friends 
forbore  speaking  to  him  of  Rossie,  though  they  talked 
much  of  her  among  themselves,  and  many  tears  were 
shed  for  the  young  girl  who  had  been  so  great  a  favorite, 
and  whose  grave  was  so  far  away.  That  Everard  loved 
her  with  more  than  a  brother's  love  was  conceded  now 
by  all,  and  no  one  thought  to  blame  him  for  it,  but  pitied 
him  in  his  sorrow,  which  he  did  not  try  to  conceal. 
When  Lawyer  Russell  took  the  doctor's  letter  to  him,  and 
asked  what  he  thought  of  it,  he  evinced  no  surprise  or 
dissatisfaction. 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said,  "  he  is  her  heir,  and  he  shall 
have  every  dollar, — remember,  every  dollar.  I  would 
not  take  it  from  her,  I  will  not  have  it  from  him  ;  arid 
you  must  do  the  business  for  me.  I  give  it  into  your 


THE    NEW    HEIR.  327 


hands.  I  cannot  confer  with  him  ;  I  should  forget  my- 
self sometime,  and  fly  at  his  throat.  I  will  give  you  all 
the  papers  pertaining  to  the  estate.  I  have  kept  the 
matter  perfectly  straight,  so  there  will  be  no  trouble  in 
finding  just  how  much  he  is  worth.  Now  mind,  don't 
you  ever  dare  to  think  I  will  have  a  penny  of  the  money, 
for  I  will  not,  so  help  me  Heaven  !  till  Rossie  rises  from 
her  grave  to  give  it  to  me.  Then  you  may  talk  to  me, 
and  not  till  then." 

This  was  Everard's  decision,  which  both  Mr.  Russell 
and  Beatrice  approved,  though  both  mourned  bitterly 
over  the  fate  which  gave  Judge  Forrest's  hoarded  stores 
into  the  hands  of  one  as  unprincipled  as  Dr.  Matthew- 
son,  whose  arrival  was  anxiously  looked  for. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE    NEW    HEIR. 

E  stepped  from  the  car  one  June  afternoon,  ele- 
gantly habited  in  the  latest  Parisian  style  of 
coat,  and  vest,  and  hat,  with  a  band  of 'crape 
around  the  latter,  and  a  grieved  look  on  his 
handsome  face,  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  the 
dear  little  girl,  dead  so  far  away,  and  whose  for- 
tune he  had  come  to  take.  With  him  was  a  sharp, 
shrewd-looking  man,  with  round,  bright  eyes,  which  saw 
everything  at  a  glance,  and  a  decidedly  foreign  accent. 
To  him  the  doctor  always  spoke  in  German,  and  in  this 
language  the  two  talked  together  for  a  few  moments  af- 
ter alighting  upon  the  platform  in  Rothsay.  Evidently 
they  were  not  expected,  for  no  one  was  there  to  meet 
them,  but  the  doctor  inquired  for  the  best  hotel,  and 
making  his  way  thither  registered  his  own  name  and  that 
of  his  friend,  "  Walter  Klyne,  Esq.,  New  York  City." 
Then,  engaging  two  of  the  best  rooms  in  the  house,  and 
ordering  dinner  at  seven  o'clock,  he  started  out  to  recon- 


328  THE    NEW    HEIR. 

noiter,  going  first  to  Everard's  office  and  greatly  aston- 
ishing the  young  man,  who  did  not  know  that  lie  had  yet 
landed  in  New  York.  It  might  be  thought,  perhaps, 
that  the  sight  of  him,  with  his  band  of  crape  upon  his 
hat,  and  the  peculiar  air  of  sadness  he  managed  to  infuse 
into  his  voice  and  manner,  would  awaken  in  Everard  a 
feeling  of  sympathy  and  kindness  for  one  in  whose  sor- 
row he  had  so  large  a  part,  but  it  produced  just  the  con- 
trary effect,  and  though  he  went  forward  with  offered 
hand  to  meet  him,  there  swept  over  him  a  sensation  of 
distrust,  and  aversion,  and  dread, — a  feeling  of  horror 
for  which  he  could  not  account,  any  more  than  he  could 
explain  the  sudden  chill  which  crept  through  his  veins, 
as  if  Rossie's  cold,  dead  hands  were  touching  his,  and 
Rossie's  white,  still  face  pressed  against  his  own. 

Dr.  Matthewson  was  very  polite  and  very  much 
afraid  of  wounding  Everard's  feelings.  He  was  sorry 
not  to  find  Mr.  Russell  there,  he  said,  as  he  wished  to  talk 
a  little  about  business,  and  would  like  to  go  over  the 
Forrest  House,  which  he  believed  was  shut  up. 

Everard  gave  him  the  keys,  and  added,  hurriedly  : 

"  You  will  have  no  trouble  whatever,  as  I  have  no  in- 
tention to  dispute  your  right  to  the  property.  It  was 
lawfully  Rossie's,  and,  therefore,  yours  now." 

It  was  the  first  time  Rossie  had  been  mentioned,  and 
Everard  felt  as  if  his  heart  were  bursting  as  he  pro- 
nounced the  name,  while  the  doctor's  lip  quivered,  and 
he  shut  his  eyes  tight  to  keep  the  tears  back. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  offered  keys.  "  We 
will  speak  of  business  by  and  by,  when  I  can  trust  myself 
to  tell  you  more  fully  what  your  sister's  wishes  were. 
Now,  I  only  wish  to  see  the  house  where  she  used  to  live. 
I  will  return  the  keys  on  my  way  back  to  the  hotel.  I 
wish  you  good  evening,  sir." 

He  lifted  his  hat  courteously,  and  walked  away  with 
his  friend,  while  Everard  watched  him  for  a  moment 
with  that  same  icy  chill  about  his  heart  and  the  feeling 
as  if  from  the  darkness  and  silence  of  her  far-off  grave 
Rossie  were  beckoning  to  him  and  trying  to  warn  him  of 
danger. 

Meantime  the  two  gentlemen  went  rapidly  along  the 
streets  of  Rothsay,  where,  as  strangers,  they  were  stared 


THE    NEW    HEIR.  329 

at  by  the  people,  who  watched  them  until  they  turned 
into  the  avenue  leading  to  the  Forrest  House. 

"  A  splendid  inheritance  !  I  quite  envy  you,  old  boy," 
Walter  Klyne  said,  as  they  ascended  the  broad  steps  and 
stood  upon  the  piazza. 

4%Yes,  it  will  do  very  well  for  a  country  house,  but  it 
will  take  a  mint  of  money  to  fix  it  up  as  I'd  like  to  have 
it,"  was  the  doctor's  reply,  as  he  fitted  the  key  to  the 
lock  and  entered  the  wide,  old-fashioned  hall,  already  be- 
ginning to  grow  dim  with  the  shadows  of  the  late  after- 
noon. '*  It's  deuced  cold,  and  damp,  and  ghost-like  in 
here;  don't  you  think  so  ?"  the  doctor  said,  shivering  a 
little  as  he  hurried  on  through  room  after  room,  hardly 
seeing  them  at  all,  until  he  came  to  one,  the  door  of 
which  was  open  as  well  as  the  blind  opposite,  so  that  a 
flood  of  sunlight  streamed  through  the  window  and  fell 
across  the  floor. 

"  This  is  a  jolly  room  ;  let's  go  in  here,"  Klyne  said, 
entering  himself,  and  looking  curiously  around,  while  the 
doctor  stood  by  the  threshold,  wiping  from  his  face 
great  drops  of  sweat,  and  starting  at  every  sound,  as  if 
he  fancied  the  place  full  of  something  harmful.  "Why, 
Doc,  what  ails  you?  You  are  white  as  a  sheet.  What's 
the  matter  ?"  Klyne  asked,  and  the  doctor  replied  : 

"  Nothing,  only  this  was  her  room  ;  Rossie's,  you 
know.  I  am  sure  of  it ;  she  described  it  to  rne  so  often, 
and  I. feel  as  if  she  was  here  with  us  ;  I  do,  upon  my 
soul.  That's  her  chair,  where  she  used  to  sit,  and  these 
must  be  her  books,  and  that's  her  bed  where  she  used  to 
sleep.  Let's  go  away  ;  it's  like  a  grave-yard  to  me." 

He  seemed  so  excited  that  his  friend  looked  at  him 
curiously,  wondering  if  the  glass  of  wine  taken  just  be- 
fore they  left  the  hotel  had  affected  his  brain,  or  if  it 
really  was  true  that  his  grief  for  his  sister  was  aug- 
mented by  the  sight  of  her  old  home,  and  the  objects 
which  had  once  made  a  part  of  her  life. 

"It's  not  like  John  Matthewson  to  love  any  one  like 
that.  There's  a  kink  somewhere,"  he  thought,  as  he  left 
the  room  and  followed  on  through  one  apartment  after 
another,  until  the  whole  had  been  gone  through,  and  they 
went  out  into  the  open  air,  where  the  doctor  seemed  to 


330  THE    NEW    HEIR. 

be  more  at  his  ease.  Taking  off  his  hat  and  wiping  his 
forehead,  where  the  perspiration  was  standing,  he  said  : 

"  This  is  a  confounded  hot  night  after  all,  or  I  arn  no 
judge  of  the  weather,  and  this  place  in  particular  seems 
hotter  than  Tophet.  I  say,  Walt,  do  you  believe  in 
ghosts,  or  haunted  houses,  or  any  of  that  sort  of  non- 
sense ?" 

"  Of  course  not.  Why  do  you  ask  ?"  Walter  Klyne 
said;  and  the  doctor  replied  : 

''Because  I  was  just  nervous  enough  to  fancy  that 
the  whole  Forrest  race,  Rossie  and  all,  were  after  me  as 
I  went  over  the  lonesome  old  hut.  Maybe  they  don't 
like  the  idea  of  my  being  the  heir,  and  that  has  brought 
the  n  from  their  graves  ;  but  I  feel  better  now,  and 
I  think  we  will  be  going,  or  the  dinner  will  be  cold." 

Early  next  morning  the  doctor  interviewed  Lawyer 
Russell,  and  at  the  close  of  the  conference  the  doctor 
knew  that  as  Rossie's  heir  he  was  entitled  to  several 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  some  in  lands  and  houses,  some 
in  bonds  and  mortgages,  some  in  railroad  shares  and 
some  in  ready  cash.  The  amount,  so  far  exceeding  what 
he  had  expected,  surprised  and  delighted  him,  and  inclined 
him  to  be  very  generously  disposed  toward  Everard, 
with  whom  he  had  one  long  talk.  lie  had  taken  all  the 
necessary  steps  to  prove  that  Rossie  died  at  Haelder- 
Strauchsen,  Austria,  on  the  evening  of  April  20th  ;  he 
had  sworn  to  that  effect  before  the  lawful  authority;  and 
he  was  accepted  by  the  public  as  the  heir,  though  under 
protest,  for  there  was  no  one  in  Rothsay  who  did  not  think 
it  was  a  shame  for  Everard  to  be  so  defrauded  of  what 
ought  always  to  have  been  his.  This  feeling  the  doctor 
perfectly  understood,  and  it  strengthened  his  resolution 
to  b.s  very  generous  toward  the  young  man,  to  whom  he 
offered  half  of  the  entire  estate. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  give  you  the  whole,"  he  said, 
"but  hanged  if  I  can  quite  bring  myself  to  that.  You 
see,  when  a  poor  chap  like  me  gets  a  little  money  it  is 
mighty  hard  to  give  it  up." 

"  But  I  thought  you  had  unlimited  means  in  Europe," 
Everard  said;  arid  without  the  slightest  change  of  coun- 
tenance the  doctor  replied  : 

"  I  did  have  something  there,  though  not  so  much  as 


THE    NEW    HEIR.  33t 

Rossie  supposed.  I  deceived  her  purposely,  thinking  she 
would  feel  easier  if  she  believed  me  very  rich.  But 
unluckily  the  firm  failed  where  most  of  my  money  was 
deposited,  so  that  I  am  much  poorer  now  than  when  I 
went  from  America  more  than  a  year  ago." 

He  seemed  to  be  in  earnest,  and  insisted  that  Everard 
should  take  half  the  property,  until  the  latter  stopped 
him  by  saying  decidedly: 

"  Your  talk  is  all  in  vain,  for  I  shall  never  take  a  dol- 
lar of  that  money.  It  would  prove  a  curse  to  me  if  I 
did.  I  do  not  want  it,  I  will  not  have  it,  and  I  only  ask 
that  I  hear  no  more  on  the  subject."  So  saying  he  rose 
suddenly  from  his  chair  and  left  the  room.  The  inter- 
view was  ended  ;  the  doctor  had  discharged  his  duty; 
and  it  was  not  his  fault  that  he  was  a  richer  man  by  more 
than  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  than  he  expected  to 
be.  On  the  whole,  he  felt  quite  satisfied  with  matters  as 
they  were,  and  would  not  quarrel  with  the  good  luck 
which  had  made  him  so  rich  that  he  need  never  again 
feel  a  moment's  anxiety. 

He  had  nothing  more  to  do  but  to  enjoy  himself,  and 
let  others  do  so  too,  for  that  was  part  of  his  creed. 
Naturally  generous  and  free,  he  was  always  ready  to 
share  his  fortune  with  others,  and  he  made  up  his  mind 
at  once  to  be  very  popular  in  Rothsay,  and  to  begin  by 
liberal  gifts  to  every  public  and  charitable  object,  as  that 
was  sure  to  win  him  favor.  Walter  Klyne,  who  served 
no  purpose  whatever,  was  retained,  nominally  as  legal 
adviser,  but  really  because  under  his  smooth,  placid  ex- 
terior the  doctor  carried  a  coward's  heart,  and  did  not 
like  to  be  alone  at  the  Forrest  House,  where  he  soon 
took  up  his  quarters.  There  was  an  odor  of  aristocracy 
about  the  place  which  he  liked,  for  it  reminded  him  of 
some  of  the  palaces  in  Europe  which  he  bad  coveted, 
envying  the  possessor,  and  fancying  how  happy  he 
should  be  were  he  the  lord  and  owner.  He  was  lord 
and  owner  now,  with  an  income  of  more  money  than  he 
had  ever  had  at  any  one  time  in  his  life.  He  had  men- 
servants  and  maid-servants,  and  fast  horses,  and  car- 
riages, and  hunting-dogs,  and  choice  cigars  by  the  hun- 
dreds, and  rare  wines,  which  he  drank  as  freely  as  water. 
He  ordered  several  costly  pictures  from  Munich  and 


332  THE    NEW    HEIR. 

Dresden,  with  statuary  from  Florence,  and  filled  the 
halls  and  grounds  with  the  latter,  and  fitted  up  a  gallery 
for  the  former,  and  set  up  to  be  a  connoisseur  and  critic 
general  of  fine  art,  and  gained  considerable  reputation 
in  that  line,  and  was  spoken  of  as  a  highly  cultivated 
and  generous  man,  of  whom  Rothsay  would  have  been 
glad  if  his  coming  there  had  not  been  brought  about  by 
the  death  of  the  sweet  young  girl,  whose  memory  was  so 
fresh  and  green  in  the  minds  of  her  friends.  He  had  the 
most  expensive  pew  in  church,  and  was  present  every 
Sunday  morning,  and  joined  reverently  in  the  service, 
though  his  preference,  he  frankly  said,  was  for  the  plain 
Methodist  chapel  ;  and  he  made  no  secret  that  he  had 
once  been  a  Methodist  clergyman,  and  said  he  should 
return  to  that  body  were  it  not  that  Rossie  loved  the 
church  as  a  child  loves  its  mother,  and  for  her  sake  he 
should  be  a  churchman,  and  instruct  himself  in  all  its 
usages  and  doctrines.  So  the  Episcopalians  claimed  him, 
and  made  much  of  him,  and  took  his  gifts  thankfully, 
and  rejoiced  that  at  last  the  Forrest  money,  which  the 
judge  had  held  so  tightly,  was  being  distributed  among 
them  in  so  liberal  a  manner.  Could  they  have  had  their 
choice  they  would  rather  have  seen  Everard  in  his  father's 
house.  Dr.  Matthewson  was  genial  and  pleasant,  and 
very  generous,  but  in  some  sense  he  was  an  interloper, 
while  Everard  was  to  the  manor  born;  the  purple  was 
his  by  birth  ;  the  blue  blood  of  Forrest  and  Bigelow 
was  in  his  veins,  and  the  people  sympathized  with  and 
pitied  him  more  than  he  ever  dreamed. 

It  was  a  very  lonely  life  which  he  led  that  summer 
after  Rossie's  death  ;  and  with  the  exception  of  Beatrice 
he  seldom  talked  with  any  one,  except  upon  business. 
He  could  not  mingle  with  his  old  friends  and  seem  as  he 
used  to  do,  with  that  sad  memory  constantly  in  his  heart; 
that  grave  always  yawning  before  him,  where  he  had 
buried  his  darling.  A  thought  of  Rossie  was  always 
with  him;  not  as  he  saw  her  last,  standing  on  the  deck 
and  waving  him  her  farewell,  with  tears  swimming  in 
her  eyes,  and  a  look  upon  her  face  whose  meaning  he 
could  readily  interpret,  but  as  she  was  when  a  little  girl 
sporting  on  the  terrace  behind  the  house,  or  romping  on 
the  grounds,  with  the  white  sun-bonnet  hanging  down 


THE    NEW    HEIR.  333 

her  back,  the  strings  chewed  into  a  hard  knot,  her  hair 
blowing  about  her  face,  and  her  starry  eyes  brightening 
when  he  joined  her  with  his  raillery  and  teasing  jokes. 

Sometimes  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  he  almost 
fancied  that  he  heard  again  the  quick  tread  of  the  busy 
feet  which  had  run  so  willingly  for  him,  and  always  when 
his  grief  was  at  its  height,  and  his  heart  aching  the 
worst,  he  felt  that  pale,  thin  hands  were  beckoning  him 
from  out  the  darkness  of  the  grave,  beckoning  him  to 
come,  as  if  the  spirit  could  not  rest  until  it  was  joined 
by  hw.  Once,  when  the  impression  was  very  strong 
upon  him,  and  it  almost  seemed  as  if  the  dead  hands 
touched  his  and  were  leading  him  away,  he  said,  aloud: 

"  Rossie,  are  you  here?  Is  there  something  you  want 
me  to  do,  and  are  you  trying  to  tell  me  ?  I'd  go  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  at  your  slightest  bidding." 

But  to  this  appeal  no  answer  came  from  the  far-off 
grave  across  the  sea,  though  the  hands  still  seemed 
beckoning  with  a  never-tiring  persistence  which  moved 
and  troubled  him  greatly.  Had  he  been  at  all  tainted 
with  spiritualism  as  it  exists  in  modern  times,  he  might 
perhaps  have  sought  through  mediums  to  know  what  his 
love  would  tell  him,  but  he  was  free  from  superstitions 
of  all  kind,  except  this  one,  that  Rossie  was  calling  to 
him,  and  that  ere  long  it  would  be  granted  him  to  join 
her  in  the  world  beyond.  And  to  this  end  he  tried  to 
make  himself  ready,  praying  earnestly  as  he  never  prayed 
before  that  God  would  lead  him  to  himself  in  any  path 
he  chose,  so  that  it  conducted  him  at  last  to  Heaven, 
where  Rossie  was.  Well  he  knew  that  if  he  would  find 
that  rest,  all  sinful  affections  must  be  overcome,  and  he  be 
made  humble  and  submissive  as  a  little  child.  At  first, 
however,  it  was  very  hard  to  be  submissive  and  humble, 
and  harder  still  not  to  hate  the  man  who  had  blasted  his 
whole  life,  and  who  seemed  to  be  riding  triumphantly  in 
the  high  and  pleasant  roads  of  success.  But  gradually 
the  hardness  began  to  give  way  as  the  new  life  within 
him  became  clearer  and  brighter,  and  though  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  like  the  doctor  or  find  pleasure  in 
his  society,  he  could  endure  his  presence,  and  no  longer 
crossed  the  street  to  avoid  meeting  him  if  he  saw  him 
coming  in  the  distance,  and  that  was  about  all  the  prog- 


334  THE    NEW    HEIR. 

ress  he  could  make  with  him.  He  distrusted  and  dis- 
liked him,  and  never  on  any  occasion  went  near  the  For- 
rest tlon.se,  which,  as  the  summer  advanced,  the  doctor 
filled  with  his  friends  from  New  York,  men  of  his  own 
class,  who  were  as  unlike  Everard  as  he  was  unlike  his 
former  self  when  he  rebelled  hotly  against  his  fate  and 
blamed  the  Almighty  for  having  dealt  so  hardly  with 
him.  He  did  not  feel  that  way  now,  and  every  Sunday 
found  him  an  occupant  of  his  father's  old  pew,  where 
Rossie  used  to  sit,  and  where  he  now  knelt  and  prayed 
earnestly  for  grace  to  bear  whatever  might  be  in  store 
for  him,  feeling,  it  is  true,  that  nothing  worse  could  hap- 
pen to  him  than  had  already  happened, — the  loss  of 
Rossie  and  the  loss  of  his  estate. 

From  JosephJne  he  seldom  heard.  She  was  still  in 
Indianapolis  with  her  friends,  but  she  did  not  write  him 
often,  and  never  asked  for  money. 

He  had  sent  her  a  Rothsay  paper  which  had  in  it  a 
column  and  a  half  of  matter  concerning  the  disposition 
of  the  Forrest  property,  and  the  new  proprietor,  but  she 
had  made  no  comment.  That  she  could  not  live  at  the 
Forrest  House  he  knew,  and  that  she  would  not  return  to 
Rothsay  he  devoutly  hoped,  and  so  he  grew  more  quiet 
and  contented  each  day,  though  there  was  ever  with  him 
a  sense  of  bitter  pain  and  a  constant  thought  of  the  grave 
across  the  sea  where  Rossie  was  buried. 

And  so  the  summer  waned,  and  September  came  and 
went,  and  one  morning  in  October  a  bombshell  was 
thrown  into  Rothsay  which  made  Everard  stagger  for  a 
moment  from  the  suddenness  of  its  coming  ;  then  he  ral- 
lied, and  his  first  sensation  was  one  of  intense  relief,  such 
as  the  prisoner  feels  when  told  that  ere  long  he  will  be 
free  again  to  go  and  come  as  he  likes. 

It  camo  first  in  the  form  of  an  article  published  in  the 
Rothsay  Star,  and  which  was  as  follows  : 

"  DIVORCE  IN  HIGH  LIFE. — We  learn  from  a  friend 
residing  in  Indianapolis  that  there  is  a  divorce  suit  pend- 
ing between  two  parties  well  known  in  Rothsay.  The 
gentleman,  in  fact,  is  still  a  resident  here,  but  the  lady  is 
at  present  in  Indianapolis,  where  she  went  last  May  with 
the  intention  of  getting  the  divorce." 


THE    NEW    HEIR.  335 

Everard  read  this  article  twice  before  fully  compre- 
hending its  meaning.  Then,  when  he  knew  he  was  one 
of  the  parties  meant,  that  it  was  the  Forrest  name  which 
must  be  mixed  with  the  affair,  his  first  feeling  was  one 
of  shame  and  mortification,  notwithstanding  that  he  had 
once  contemplated  doing  just  what  Josephine  was  doing 
for  him.  But  his  next  feeling  was  one  of  intense  relief 
that  at  last  he  would  he  free  from  the  burden  which  had 
borne  so  heavily  upon  him.  He  went  with  the  notice  to 
Beatrice,  who,  although  she  disapproved  of  divorces  as  a 
rule,  looked  upon  this  as  an  exceptional  case,  and  was 
glad  for  him.  Of  course  all  Rothsay  talked,  and  gos- 
siped, and  wondered,  but  asked  no  questions  of  Everard, 
who,  outwardly,  was  just  the  same,  and  came  and  went 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  or  was  likely  to  happen. 

Dr.  Matthewson  seemed  as  much  surprised  as  any 
one,  but  offered  no  opinion  whatever  on  the  subject,  and 
after  a  few  days  he  went  to  New  York  with  his  insepara- 
ble friend  and  adviser,  Walter  Klyne.  Four  weeks 
later  a  notice  was  sent  to  Everard  to  the  effect  that  a 
divorce  from  him  had  been  granted  to  his  former  wife, 
who  chose  to  take  her  maiden  name,  and  was  again 
Josephine  Fleming  ;  also,  that  he,  too,  was  divorced, 
with  a  right  lo  marry  again,  if  he  chose. 

From  that  time  onward  Everard  was  a  changed  man. 
It  is  true  that  Rossie  was  always  in  his  mind,  and  he  never 
for  a  moment  forgot  the  pain  and  loss,  which  it  seemed 
to  him  grew  greater  every  day,  but  the  consciousness 
that  Josephine  had  no  claim  upon  him  made  him  in  one 
way  very  happy,  and  he  felt  freer  from  care  and  anxiety 
than  he  had  done  since  that  fatal  night  when  he  made 
the  mistake  of  his  life.  That  Josephine  would  marry 
again  he  was  confident,  and  it  did  not  need  Beatrice's 
hint,  cautiously  given,  to  awake  in  his  mind  a  suspicion 
as  to  who  the  man  would  be ;  and  still  it  was  a  shock 
when  it  came  to  him  early  in  the  spring  that  the  Forrest 
House  was  to  have  a  mistress,  and  that  its  last  occupant 
was  coming  back  with  a  right  to  rule  and  reign  and 
spend  his  father's  money  as  she  chose. 


836     THE  NEW  REIGN  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE. 
CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  NEW  EEIGN   AT  THE   FORREST  HOUSE. 


OCTOB  MATTHEWSON  had  spent  most  of 
the  winter  in  New  York,  but  of  Josephine's 
whereabouts  little  was  known.  She  had  been 
in  New  York,  and  Holburton,  and  Boston, 
where  she  was  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Arnold, 
with  whom  she  had  been  abroad,  and  whose  good 
opinion  she  had  succeeded  in  retaining  by  telling  her  a 
part  only  of  the  truth,  and  doing  it  in  such  a  manner 
that  she  appeared  to  be  the  party  to  be  pitied  rather 
than  Everard.  Mrs.  Arnold  was  not  a  person  who  looked 
very  deeply  into  matters,  she  chose  rather  to  take  them 
as  they  seemed,  and  Josephine  had  been  very  faithful  to 
her  and  her  interest  while  they  were  abroad;  and  though 
she  was  shocked  and  surprised  when  she  first"  heard  the 
story  of  the  marriage,  Josephine  told  it  so  well  for  her- 
self as  to  make  it  appear  that  she  had  not  been  greatly  in 
fault,  and  the  lady  believed  her  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning,  and  invited  her  to  her  own  home  in  Boston, 
where  she  was  stopping  somewhere  about  the  middle  of 
March,  when  word  came  to  the  man  in  charge  of  the  For- 
rest House  that  the  doctor,  who  had  already  been  gone 
two  months  and  more,  would  remain  away  still  longer, 
and  that  when  he  returned  Mrs.  Matthewson  would 
accompany  him.  Who  Mrs.  Matthewson  was  the  letter 
did  not  state,  but  Beatrice  readily  guessed,  and  was  not 
at  all  surprised  when,  a  week  later,  she  received  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Morton,  who  was  still  in  Boston,  and  who 
wrote  that  he  had  been  asked  to  officiate  at  the  marriage 
of  Miss  Josephine  Fleming  with  Dr.  John  Matthewson, 
said  marriage  to  take  place  at  the  house  of  one  of  his 
parishioners,  Mrs.  Arnold,  April  15th,  at  eleven  o'clock, 
A.  M. 

What  Everard  thought  or  felt  when  he  heard  the 
news  he  kept  to  himself,  but  the  townspeople  unani- 
mously disapproved  of  the  match,  and  arrayed  them- 


THE  NEW  REIGN  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE.     337 

selves  against  the  bride  elect  and  decided  that  she 
should  be  made  to  feel  the  weight  of  their  disapproba- 
tion, and  know  that  they  resented  her  marriage  and 
coming  back  there  to  live  as  an  insult  to  Everard  and  an 
affront  to  themselves.  Nor  were  they  at  all  mollified  by 
the  arrival  of  cards  inviting  them  to  the  wedding.  There 
were  in  all  a  dozen  invitations  sent  to  as  many  families 
in  Rothsay,  and  Beatrice  had  a  letter  from  Josephine, 
in  which  she  tried  to  make  everything  seem  fair  and 
right  with  regard  to  the  divorce  and  marriage,  and 
hoped  Miss  Belknap  would  be  friendly  with  her  when 
she  came  back  to  Rothsay. 

"  For  myself,"  she  added,  "  I  would  rather  not  go 
where  Everard  is,  and  where  his  friends  can  hardly  wish 
to  see  me.  But  the  doctor  is  inexorable,  and  insists 
upon  living  at  Rothsay  a  portion  of  the  year  at  least. 
He  likes  the  Forrest  House,  he  says,  and  would  not  sell 
it  for  the  world.  It  suits  him  for  a  summer  residence, 
and  we  shall  be  there  some  time  in  June.  He  is  very 
kind,  and  I  trust  that  after  the  stormy  life  I  have  led 
there  is  a  bright  future  in  store  for  me,  which,  I  assure 
you,  I  shall  appreciate,  and  if  I  can  atone  for  whatever 
has  been  wrong  and  questionable  in  the  past  I  certainly 
shall  do  so." 

And  to  do  Josephine  justice,  she  did  mean  to  retrieve 
her  character  if  possible,  and  be  at  least  a  true  wife  to 
the  man  who  had  chosen  her,  knowing  perfectly  well 
what  she  was  and  Low  little  to  be  trusted.  There  was 
about  Josephine  a  most  powerful  fascination  for  Dr. 
Matthewson,  who  thought  her  the  most  beautiful  and 
attractive  woman  he  had  ever  seen.  And  the  doctor 
liked  beautiful  and  attractive  things;  they  suited  his 
luxurious  tastes,  and  Josephine  was  just  the  one  to  adorn 
the  kind  of  home  he  was  now  able  to  have.  She  would  be 
equal  to  any  emergency,  and  he  would  enjoy  the  atten- 
tions she  was  sure  to  receive  at  the  different  watering- 
places  and  hotels,  where  he  meant  to  take  her.  If  any 
of  her  admirers  should  become  too  demonstrative  he 
could  easily  rid  himself  of  them  and  bring  his  wife  under 
subjection,  for  he  meant  to  be  her  master,  and  to  do  ex- 
actly as  he  pleased  in  everything,  and  he  made  a  begin- 
ning by  refusing  to  sell  the  Forrest  House,  as  she  wished 
15 


838     TEE  NEW  REIGN  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE. 

him  to  do.  For  Josephine  was  determined  not  to  go 
back  to  Rothsay,  and  at  first  made  it  a  condition  in  mar- 
rying the  doctor  that  he  should  dispose  of  the  place,  or 
at  least  not  require  her  to  live  there  even  for  a  few 
weeks.  She  had  no  wish  to  meet  Everard,  or  to  come  in 
contact  with  his  friends,  who  were  sure  to  slight  her  now. 
But  the  doctor  was  resolved  upon  making  the  house  into 
a  kind  of  palace,  where  he  could  enjoy  himself  after  his 
own  ideas,  and  as  he  had  not  the  slightest  consideration 
for  the  wishes  or  feelings  of  others,  he  laughed  at  Jose- 
phine's scruples,  which  he  called  whims,  and  carried  his 
point  with  regard  to  the  Forrest  House,  and  the  evening 
of  the  15th  of  April  there  appeared  in  the  Boston  papers 
the  following  notice: 

"MAKKIED,  this  morning  at  ten  o'clock,  by  the  Rev. 
Theodore  Morton,  Dr.  John  Matthewson  to  Miss  Jose- 
phine Fleming." 

Washington  and  New  York  were  the  cities  where 
the  happy  pair  spent  their  honeymoon,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  middle  of  June  that  they  took  possession  of 
their  Rothsay  house,  which  had  undergone  quite  a 
transformation.  All  through  the  months  of  April  and 
May  carpenters  from  Cincinnati  had  been  there,  follow- 
ing out  the  plan  which  the  doctor  had  forwarded  to  them 
with  the  most  minute  instructions.  Bay-windows  were 
sent  out  here,  and  hanging  balconies  there,  and  pretty 
little  sunny  nooks  for  plants  were  cut  through  the  solid 
mason- work  ;  rooms  were  thrown  together,  trees  were 
removed  to  admit  more  light  and  give  finer  views,  until 
the  stately,  old-fashioned  house  assumed  the  appearance 
of  a  modern  and  rather  graceful  structure,  which  the 
Rothsayites,  and  even  Beatrice  herself,  thought  greatly 
improved.  Every  room  was  refurnished  and  changed  in 
some  way  except  Rossie's, — which  was  left  untouched. 
Not  an  article  of  furniture  was  changed  or  moved  from 
its  place.  Some  of  Rossie's  books  were  on  the  shelf 
where  she  left  them  ;  a  work-box  was  on  the  table,  and 
in  the  closet  one  or  two  half-worn  dresses  hung,  a  prey 
to  any  moth  or  insect  which  chose  to  fasten  upon  them. 
But  the  rest  of  the  house  was  beautiful,  and  fresh,  and 


THE  NEW  REIGN  AT  TEE  FORREST  HOUSE.     339 

new,  and  ready  for  the  bride,  who  came  one  afternoon 
in  June,  and  was  met  at  the  station  by  the  coachman, 
with  the  new  carriage  and  high-stepping  horses,  which 
pawed  the  ground  and  arched  their  glossy  necks  as  the 
long  train  swept  by. 

There  was  no  one  there  to  meet  the  bride,  for  the 
marriage  was  very  unpopular  in  town,  and  every  door 
was  virtually  closed  against  the  lady  who,  for  once  in 
her  life,  looked  pale  and  tired,  as  she  took  her  seat  in  the 
carriage,  and  leaning  back  wearily,  said,  to  the  doctor  : 

"  Please  take  the  straightest  road  home,  for  I  am, 
tired  to  death." 

But  if  the  doctor  heard  her  he  did  not  heed  her  re- 
quest. He  had  no  feelings  of  shame  or  twinges  of  con- 
science. He  wished  the  people  to  see  his  splendid  turn- 
out, and  they  drove  through  Main  street,  past  all  the 
shops  and  offices,  where  the  men  and  boys  stared  at  them, 
and  a  few  made  a  show  of  recognizing  the  courteous 
lifting  of  the  doctor's  hat,  and  the  patronizing  wave  of 
his  hand. 

Josephine  was  closely  vailed,  and  pretended  not  to  see 
the  ladies  who  were  on  the  street,  and  who  did  not  turn 
their  heads  as  the  elegant  carriage  went  by.  But  Josey 
knew  that  they  saw  her,  and  felt  that  her  worst  fears 
were  to  be  realized  ;  and  when,  at  a  sudden  turn  in  the 
road,  they  came  upon  Beatrice,  whose  cool  little  nod 
seemed  more  an  insult  than  a  recognition,  her  cup  of 
humiliation  was  full,  and  there  were  tears  of  mortifica- 
tion and  anger  in  her  eyes,  and  her  headache  was  not 
feigned  when  at  last  they  drew  up  before  the  house, 
where  a  strange  woman  was  waiting  to  greet  them.  This 
was  Mrs.  Rogers,  the  housekeeper,  imported  for  that 
purpose  from  Cincinnati,  as  were  the  other  servants. 
These,  however,  had  all  heard  the  antecedents  of  their 
new  master  and  mistress  very  freely  discussed,  and  the 
result  was  that  a  mutiny  was  already  in  progress,  for,  as 
the  girl  who  held  the  post  of  scullion  said,  "  she  had  lost 
one  cha-rac-ter  by  living  with  folks  who  wasn't  fust  cut, 
and  she  didn't  care  to  lose  another."  Still,  the  wages 
were  good,  and  all  decided  to  stay  a  while,  and  see  what 
the  lady  who  had  two  husbands  living  and  had  once  been 
a  servant  herself  (such  was  the  story  as  they  had  it)  was 


340     THE  NEW  REIGN  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE. 

like.  So  they  came  to  meet  her,  and  thought  her  very 
handsome  and  stylish,  and  a  fit  occupant  of  the  beautiful 
rooms  of  which  she  was  mistress,  and  for  which  she  did 
not  seem  to  care,  for  she  never  stopped  to  look  at  them, 
but  went  directly  to  her  own  apartments,  which  she  did 
have  the  grace  to  say  were  pretty. 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  very  nice,"  she  said  to  the  doctor,  "  but 
I  am  frightfully  tired,  and  nervous,  too,  I  think.  This 
last  hot  day's  ride  has  just  upset  me.  I  believe  I'll  have 
a  cup  of  tea  brought  to  my  room,  and  not  go  down  to 
dinner,  if  you'll  excuse  me." 

"  You  won't  do  any  such  thing,"  was  the  doctor's  re- 
ply. "  You'll  put  on  one  of  your  swell-dresses,  and  go 
down  to  dinner  with  me.  I  wish  the  servants  to  see  you 
at  your  best,  and  somebody  may  call  this  evening." 

"  Somebody  call  !"  Josephine  retorted,  with  intense 
bitterness  in  her  voice.  "  Don't  flatter  yourself  that  any 
one  whom  I  care  for  will  call  to-night,  or  ever,  while  I 
remain  in  Rothsay." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  the  doctor  asked,  and 
she  replied  : 

"  I  mean  that  as  Everard  Forrest's  divorced  wife, 
married  to  another  man,  I  am  to  be  tabooed  in  this  town. 
Didn't  you  notice  how  the  ladies  we  passed  on  the  street 
pretended  to  be  looking  another  way  so  as  not  to  see  me. 
They  did  not  wish  to  recognize  me  even  with  a  nod,  and 
you  surely  noticed  the  insulting  bow  which  Miss  Belknap 

fave  me.     There  was  not  a  particle  of  cordiality  in  it.    I 
new  it  would  be  so,  and  that  was  why  I  was  so  opposed 
to  coming  here.     I  wish  I  had  remained  firm  to  my  first 
resolution." 

She  was  more  than  half  crying  with  anger  and  vexa- 
tion, but  the  doctor  only  laughed  at  what  he  termed  her 
groundless  fears.  Supposing  she  was  a  divorced  woman, 
with  her  first  husband  living  in  the  same  town,  what  did 
that  matter  ?  He  knew  of  many  such  instances,  and  if 
the  people  in  Rothsay  were  disposed  to  slight  him  at 
first,  he  should  live  it  down,  for  money  could  accomplish 
everything. 

But  Josephine  was  not  to  be  soothed  by  his  words, 
and  bade  him  mind  his  business  and  leave  her  to  herself. 
It  was  the  first  ebullition  of  temper  she  had  shown 


THE  NEW  REIGN  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE.     341 

toward  him  ;  so  he  received  it  good-humoredly,  and 
touched  her  playfully  under  her  chin,  and  had  his  way 
in  everything,  and  took  down  to  dinner  a  most  beauti- 
ful and  elegantly-dressed  woman,  who  looked  as  if  made 
for  just  the  place  she  was  occupying  at  the  head  of  that 
handsomely  appointed  table. 

No  one  called  either  that  evening,  or  the  next,  or  the 
next,  and  when  Sunday  came  she  was  really  sick  with 
mortification  and  disappointment,  and  the  doctor  went  to 
church  without  her,  and  met  only  cold  words  from  those 
to  whom  he  tried  to  talk  after  service  was  over.  Nobody 
mentioned  his  wife,  although  he  spoke  of  her  himself, 
and  said  that  she  was  sick,  and  asked  Mrs.  Rider  to  tell 
her  husband  to  call  in  the  afternoon  and  see  her.  Even 
that  ruse  failed,  for  there  was  no  solicitude  expressed  for 
the  lady's  health,  no  inquiry  as  to  what  ailed  her,  and 
the  doctor  drove  home  in  his  handsome  carriage,  feeling 
that  after  all  Josephine  might  be  right,  and  that  the  peo- 
ple were  determined  to  show  their  disapprobation.  But 
he  meant  to  live  it  down,  and  not  let  the  good  fortune 
he  had  so  coveted  turn  to  ashes  on  his  hands.  But  living 
it  down  was  not  so  easy  as  he  had  supposed,  and  as  day 
after  day  went  by,  and  no  one  came  to  see  his  grandeur, 
or  paid  the  least  attention  to  him,  his  spirits  began  to 
flag,  and  he  half-suspected  that  he  had  made  a  mistake 
in  bringing  his  wife  to  Rothsay,  where  the  Forrest  star 
was  evidently  in  the  ascendan4.. 

Once  he  decided  to  fill  the  house  with  young  men 
from  New  York  and  Cincinnati,  but  when  he  thought  of 
Josey  he  gave  that  up,  for  his  love,  or  rather  passion, 
for  her  was  strong  enough  to  make  him  wish  to  keep  her 
smiles  and  blandishments  for  himself;  and  so  the  New 
York  guests  were  given  up,  and  he  spent  his  time  driving 
his  fast  horses  through  the  country  during  the  morning, 
and  in  the  afternoon  lounging,  and  smoking,  and  read- 
ing, and  looking  over  his  handsome  house  until  his  elab- 
orate dinner,  which  was  served  at  half-past  six,  and  no- 
tice of  which  was  given  to  the  portion  of  the  town 
nearest  him  by  the  loud  bell  which  he  caused  to  be  rung 
as  a  signal  to  himself  and  wife  that  dinner  wras  ready. 
The  doctor  was  very  particular  and  exacting  on  every 
point  of  table  etiquette,  and  required  as  much  form,  and 


842     THE  NEW  REIGN  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE. 

ceremony,  and  attention,  as  if  a  multitude  of  guests  sat 
daily  at  his  board,  instead  of  himself  and  Josephine, 
who  was  always  elegantly  dressed  in  silks,  and  laces,  and 
diamonds,  and  looked  a  very  queen  as  she  took  her  seat 
at  the  head  of  her  table  with  a  languor  which  was 
not  feigned,  for  in  her  heart  she  was  tired  and  sick  to 
death  of  the  grand,  lonely  life  she  led.  Nobody  came 
near  her,  and  when  by  chance  she  met  any  of  her  old 
acquaintances  they  were  too  much  hurried  to  do  more 
than  bow  to  her;  while  even  the  tradespeople  lacked  that 
deference  of  manner  which  she  felt  was  her  due.  The 
doctor  seldom  asked  her  to  join  him  in  his  drives,  and  as 
she  did  not  care  to  go  out  alone  and  face  the  disapprov- 
ing public,  she  spent  her  time  mostly  in  her  room  read- 
ing French  novels  and  eating  candy  and  bonbons,  with 
which  she  was  always  supplied. 

Everard  she  had  never  met  face*  to  face,  though  she 
had  seen  him  in  the  distance  from  her  window,  and 
watched  him  as  he  went  by  with  a  strange  feeling  at  her 
heart  which  wrung  a  few  hot,  bitter  tears  from  her,  as 
she  remembered  the  summer  years  ago  when  her  boy- 
lover  was  all  the  world  to  her,  and  the  life  before  her 
seemed  so  fair  and  bright.  Not  that  she  really  wanted 
Everard  back,  but  she  wanted  something  ;  she  missed 
something  in  her  life  which  she  longed  for  intensely,  and 
at  last  made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  Agnes,  the  despised 
sister,  who  was  in  Holburton,  earning  her  own  living  as 
housekeeper  for  Captain  Sparks. 

When  they  first  returned  to  the  Forrest  House,  Dr. 
Matthewson  had  signified  to  her  his  wish  that  Agnes 
should  remain  where  she  was.  She  would  hardly  be 
ornamental  in  his  household,  he  said.  He  liked  only 
beautiful  objects  around  him,  and  Agnes  was  not  beauti- 
ful. She  would  be  an  ugly  blot  upon  the  picture,  and  he 
did  not  want  her,  though  he  was  willing  to  supply  her 
with  money,  if  necessary.  But  Agnes  did  not  wish  for 
his  money.  She  could  take  care  of  herself,  and  was 
happier  in  Holburton  than  she  could  be  elsewhere.  But 
as  the  summer  went  by,  the  longing  in  Josephine's  heart 
for  the  companionship  of  some  woman  grew  so  strong 
that  she  ventured  at  last  to  write,  begging  her  sister  to 
come,  and  telling  how  lonely  she  was  without  her. 


THE    LETTER     FROM    AUSTRIA.  343 

"I  have  been  hard  and  selfish,  and  wicked,  I  know," 
she  wrote,  "  but,  Aggie,  I  am  far  from  being  happy,  and 
I  want  you  here  with  me  so  much  that  I  am  sure  you 
will  come.  I  believe  I  am  sick  or  nervous,  or  both,  and 
the  sight  of  your  dear  old  face  will  do  me  good." 

Josephine  did  not  tell  her  husband  of  this  letter,  lest 
he  should  forbid  her  sending  it.  She  was  beginning  to 
be  a  good  deal  afraid  of  him,  but  she  thought  she  knew 
him  well  enough  to  feel  sure  that  if  Agnes  were  once  in 
the  house  he  would  make  no  open  opposition  to  it,  and 
she  was  willing  to  bear  a  good  deal  in  private  for  the  sake 
of  having  her  sister  with  her  again.  So  she  wrote  her 
letter,  and  as  the  day  was  fine,  took  it  to  the  post-office 
herself,  in  order  to  insure  its  safety. 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

THE   LETTER  FEOM   AUSTRIA. 

HERE  had  been  some  trouble  with  the  clerks 
in  the  post-office  at  Rothsay,  and  two  new 
ones  had  just  been  appointed,  and  one  of 
these  had  entered  upon  his  duties  only  the 
day  before.  As  he  came  from  Dayton,  and 
was  a  stranger  in  town,  he  knew  very  few  people  by 
sight,  and  was  altogether  ignorant  of  the  name  and  ante- 
cedents of  the  beautiful  lady,  who,  after  depositing  her 
letter,  asked  if  there  was  any  mail  for  the  Forrest  House. 
Half-bewildered  with  her  beauty  and  the  bright  smile 
she  flashed  upon  him,  the  clerk  started  and  blushed,  and 
catching  only  the  name  Forrest,  looked  in  Everard's  box, 
where  lay  a  letter  not  yet  called  for,  as  Everard  had  left 
town  early  that  morning  for  a  drive  into  the  country, 
where  he  had  some  business  with  a  client.  It  was  a  soiled- 
looking  letter,  with  a  foreign  post-mark  upon  it,  and  had 
either  been  mislaid  a  long  time  after  it  had  been  written, 
or  detained  upon  the  road,  for  it  was  worn  upon  the 


344  TEE    LETTER     FROM    AUSTRIA. 

edges,  and  had  evidently  been  much  crumpled  with  fre- 
quent handling.  It  was  directed  to  J.  Everai  d  Forrest, 
Esq.,  Rothsay,  Ohio,  U.  S.  A.,  and  in  a  corner,  the  two 
words,  "  Please  forward  "  were  written,  as  if  the  writer 
were  in  haste  and  thought  thus  to  expedite  matters. 

Very  mechanically,  and  even  indifferently,  Josephine 
took  it  in  her  hand,  and  glancing  at  the  name  saw  the 
clerk  had  made  a  mistake  and  given  her  what  belonged 
to  another.  But  she  saw,  too,  something  else,  which 
turned  her  white  as  ashes,  and  riveted  her  for  a  moment 
to  the  spot  with  a  feeling  that  she  was  either  dying  or 
mad,  or  both.  Surely,  she  knew  that  writing.  She  had 
seen  it  times  enough  not  to  be  mistaken.  And  she  had 
thought  the  hand  which  penned  it  dead  long  ago,  and 
laid  away  under  the  grass  and  flowers  of  Austria.  "Ros- 
sie"  she  tried  to  say,  but  her  white  lips  would  not  move, 
and  there  was  about  them  a  strange  prickling  sensation 
which  frightened  her  more  than  the  numbness  of  her  body. 

"  I  must  get  into  the  air  where  I  can  breathe,"  she 
thought,  and  with  a  desperate  effort  she  dragged  herself 
to  the  street,  taking  the  letter  with  her,  and  grasping  it 
with  a  firm  grip  as  if  fearful  of  losing  it,  when  in  fact 
she  had  forgotten  that  she  had  it  at  all,  until  the  air 
blowing  on  her  face  revived  her  somewhat  and  brought 
her  back  to  a  consciousness  of  what  she  was  doing. 

Then  her  first  impulse  was  to  return  the  letter  to 
Everard's  box,  and  she  turned  to  go  back  when  she  saw 
her  husband  entering  the  office,  and  that  decided  her. 
She  would  not  let  him  see  the  letter,  for  if  there  were  a 
great  wrong  somewhere,  he  knew  it  and  had  contrived 
it,  and  the  cold  sweat  broke  out  from  every  pore  as 
she  began  dimly  to  conjecture  the  nature  of  the  wrong, 
and  to  shudder  at  its  enormity.  She  was  feeling  stronger 
now,  and  fearful  lest  her  husband  should  overtake  her 
she  hurried  across  the  common  toward  home,  where  she 
went  at  once  to  her  room,  and,  locking  the  door,  sat 
down  to  read  that  letter  from  the  dead.  She  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  do  that  during  her  rapid  walk.  She 
must  know  its  contents,  and  so  she  broke  the  seal 
and  began  to  read.  And  as  she  read  she  felt  the 
blood  curdle  in  her  veins  ;  there  was  a  humming  in  her 
ears ;  a  thick  feeling  in  her  tongue,  and  a  kind  of  con- 


THE    LETTER     FROM    AUSTRIA.  345 

sciousness  that  she  was  somebody  else,  whose  business 
for  the  rest  of  her  life  was  to  keep  the  letter  and  its  con- 
tents a  secret  from  the  world.  But  where  should  she 
hide  it  that  no  one  could  ever  find  it,  for  nobody  must 
see  it?  Safety,  honor,  everything  dear  to  her  depended 
upon  that.  Not  even  her  husband  must  look  upon  it  or 
know  that  it  was  written;  and  where  should  she  put  it 
that  he  would  not  find  it,  for  he  took  the  liberty  to  look 
through  her  private  drawers  and  boxes  just  when  it 
pleased  him  to  do  so  ?  She  could  not  put  the  letter  in  a 
box  or  keep  it  about  her  person,  and  she  dared  not  de- 
stroy it,  though  she  made  the  attempt  and  lighted  the  gas 
in  which  to  burn  it  to  ashes.  But  as  she  held  it  to  the 
blaze  something  seemed  to  grasp  her  hand  "and  draw  it 
back.  •  And  when  she  shook  off  the  sensation  of  fear 
which  had  seized  her,  and  again  attempted  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  note,  the  same  effect  was  produced,  and  an 
icy  chill  crept  over  her  as  if  it  were  a  dead  hand  clutch- 
ing hers  and  holding  it  fast. 

"  I  can't  destroy  it;  I  dare  not  !"  she  whispered;  "  and 
what  if  somebody  should  find  it?  What  if  he  should  ? 
He  told  me  once  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  every  sin  but 
murder,  and  under  strong  provocation  he  might  be  led 
to  do  even  that;"  and  a  shudder  of  fear  ran  through  her 
frame  as  she  cast  about  in  her  own  mind  for  a  safe  hid- 
ing-place for  the  letter  which  affected  her  so  strangely. 
Suddenly  it  came  to  her  that  she  could  loosen  a  few  tacks 
in  the  carpet,  just  where  the  lace  curtains  covered  the 
floor  in  a  corner  of  the  bay-window,  and  pushing  the  let- 
ter out  of  sight,  drive  the  tacks  in  again,  and  so  the  se- 
cret would  be  safe,  for  a  time  at  least.  To  do  her  jus- 
tice, for  once  in  her  life  conscience  was  prompting  her 
to  the  only  right  course  left  her  to  pursue, — give  the  let- 
ter to  Everard  and  abide  the  consequences.  But  she 
could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  do  this,  knowing  that  ut- 
ter poverty  and  disgrace  would  be  the  result,  and  she 
had  learned  by  this  time  that  poverty  with  Dr.  Matthew- 
son  would  be  a  far  different  thing  from  poverty  with 
Everard. 

To  hide  the  letter  under  the  carpet  was  the  work  of 
a  moment,  and,  unlocking  the  door,  she  was  going  for  a 
hammer,  with  which  to  drive  the  tacks,  when  she  heard 

15* 


346  THE    LETTER     FROM    AUSTRIA. 

her  husband's  voice  in  the  hall  below,  and  knew  that  he 
was  coming.  He  must  not  know  that  she  held  his  guilty 
secret,  lest  he  should  murder  her,  as  in  her  nervousness 
she  felt  that  he  might  do,  and  so  she  retraced  her  steps 
to  the  couch,  where  she  lay  half  fainting,  and  as  white 
as  marble,  when  the  doctor  entered  the  room  and  asked 
her  what  was  the  matter. 

She  did  not  know,  she  said  ;  she  had  been  down 
to  the  village  and  walked  rather  fast,  and  was  very 
warm,  and  had  drank  freely  of  ice-water,  which  made 
her  feel  as  if  her  head  were  bursting.  She  should  prob- 
ably feel  better  soon. 

But  she  did  not  get  better,  and  she  lay  all  that  day 
and  the  next  upon  the  couch,  and  seemed  so  strange  and 
nervous  that  her  husband  called  in  Dr.  Rider,  who,- after 
a  few  questions,  the  drift  of  which  she  understood,  and 
to  which  she  gave  false  replies  for  the  purpose  of  mis- 
leading him,  assigned  a  cause  for  her  ailments,  and  then 
went  away.  Thus  deceived,  and  on  the  whole  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise,  Dr.  Matthewson  was  disposed 
to  be  very  attentive  and  indulgent  to  his  wife,  with 
whom  he  sat  a  good  portion  of  each  day,  humoring  all 
her  whims  and  trying  to  quiet  her  restless,  nervous  state 
of  mind. 

"You  act  as  if  you  were  afraid  of  me,  Josey,"  he  said 
once,  when  he  sat  down  beside  her  and  put  his  arm 
around  her  with  something  of  the  old  lover-like  fondness. 
"You  tremble  like  a  leaf  if  I  touch  you,  and  shrink 
away  from  me.  What  is  it  ?  What  has  come  between 
us?  You  may  as  well  tell,  for  I  am  sure  to  find  it  out 
if  there  is  anything." 

She  knew  that,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  his  eyes 
were  following  hers  to  the  bay  window  and  seeing  the 
letter  hidden  under  the  carpet.  She  must  say  something 
by  way  of  an  excuse,  and  with  her  ready  tact  she  an- 
swered him  :  "  I  am  keeping  something  from  you.  I 
have  written  Aggie  to  come  to  me.  I  was  so  lonesome 
and  sick,  and  wanted  her  so  much.  You  are  not  angry, 
are  you  ?" 

Her  great  blue  eyes  were  swimming  with  genuine 
tears,  for  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  what  her  husband 
might  say  to  the  liberty  she  had  taken  without  his  per- 


THE    LETTER    FROM    AUSTRIA.  847 

mission.  Fortunately,  he  was  in  one  of  his  most  genial 
moods.  Dr.  Rider  had  said  to  him  privately  that  in  her 
present  nervous  condition  Josephine  must  not  be  crossed  ; 
and  he  answered  laughingly  that  he  was  not  angry,  but 
on  the  contrary,  very  glad  Aggie  was  coming,  as  he 
believed  her  a  capital  nurse  ;  and  "  Josey,"  he  added, 
"you  need  building  up.  You  are  growing  as  thin  as  a 
shad  and  white  as  a  sheet,  and  that  I  don't  like.  I  thought 
you  would  never  fade  and  fall  off  like  Bee  Belknap.  I 
met  her  this  morning,  and  she  positively  begins  to  look 
like  an  old  maid.  I  hear  she  is  to  be  married  soon,"  and 
he  shot  a  keen,  quick  glance  at  his  wife,  into  whose  pale 
cheeks  the  hot  blood  rushed  at  once,  and  whose  voice 
was  not  quite  steady  as  she  asked  : 

"  Married, — to  whom  ?     Not  Everard  ?" 

"  No-o,"  the  doctor  answered,  contemptuously,  an- 
noyed at  Josephine's  manner.  "I  hope  she  has  more 
sense  than  to  marry  that  milksop,  who  has  grown  to  be 
more  like  a  Methodist  parson  than  anything  else.  You 
called  him  a  milksop  yourself,  once,"  he  continued,  as  he 
saw  the  flash  in  Josephine's  eyes,  "  and  you  must  Yiot 
blame  me  for  taking  my  cue  from  you,  who  know  him 
better  than  I  do.  I  believe,  on  my  soul,  you  half  feared 
he  was  going  to  marry,  and  were  sorry  for  it.  He  is 
nothing  to  you.  A  woman  cannot  have  two  husbands; 
that's  bigamy." 

The  doctor  was  growing  irritable,  and  Josephine 
knew  it,  but  she  could  not  forbear  answering  him 
tartly: 

"  There  are  worse  crimes  than  bigamy,^-a  great  deal, 
— and  they  are  none  the  less  worse  because  the  world 
does  not  know  of  them." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  sharply,  and  Jose- 
phine replied: 

"  Nothing  in  particular;  only  you  Jold  me  once  that 
you  had  broken  every  commandment  except  the  one 
1  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder,'  and  that  you  might  break 
that  under  strong  provocation.  Of  course  there  are  sins 
at  your  door  not  generally  known.  Suppose  some  one 
should  be  instrumental  in  bringing  them  or  the  worst  of 
them  to  light?" 

"  Then  I  might  break  the  only  commandment  you 


348  AGNES    FINDS    THE    LETTER 

Bay  I  have  not  broken,"  he  answered,  and  in  the  eyes 
bent  so  searchingly  on  Josephine's  face  there  was  an 
evil,  threatening  look,  before  which  she  quailed. 

She  must  never  let  him  know  of  the  letter  hidden 
under  the  carpet,  and  watched  by  her  so  carefully. 
Every  day  she  went  to  the  spot  to  make  sure  it  was 
there,  and  every  day  she  read  it  again  until  she  knew  it 
^by  heart,  and  had  no  need  to  read  it  except  to  see  if  she 
had  not  by  some  chance  made  a  mistake  J|pd  read  it 
wrong.  But  she  had  not;  the  proof  was  there,  of  crime, 
and  guilt,  and  sin,  such  as  made  her  terribly  afraid  of 
the  man  who  fondled  and  caressed  her  now  more  than 
he  had  done  in  weeks,  and  who  at  last  welcomed  Agnes, 
when  she  came,  even  more  warmly  than  she  did  herself, 
though  in  not  quite  so  demonstrative  a  manner. 

Agnes  had  gone  straight  to  her  sister's  room,  which 
Josephine  had  not  left  since  the  day  she  took  the  foreign 
letter  from  the  office  and  hid  it  under  the  carpet.  She 
had  become  a  monomaniac  on  the  subject  of  that  letter, 
and  dared  not  leave  lest  some  one  should  find  it,  but  sat 
all  day  in  her  easy-chair,  which  had  been  drawn  into  the 
bay  window,  and  stood  directly  over  her  secret.  And 
there  she  sat  when  Agnes  came  in,  and  then,  as  if  all  her 
remaining  nerves  had  given  way,  she  threw  her  arms 
around  her  neck  and  sobbing  out,  "  Oh,  Aggie,  I  am  glad 
you  have  come;  I  could  not  have  borne  it  much  longer," 
fainted  entirely  away. 


CHAPTER  XL VII. 
AGNES  FINDS  THE  LETTER. 

F  there  was  one  thing  more  than  another 
which  Agnes  detested,  it  was  carpet-bugs; 
those  little  black  pests  which,  within  a  few 
years,  have  crept  into  the  houses  in  certain 
sections  of  the  country,  carrying  with  them 
ruin  to  whatever  they  fasten  upon,  and  dismay  and 


AGNES    FINDS    THE    LETTER.  340 

wretchedness  to  those  who  will  persist  in  hunting  for 
them.  Among  the  latter  class  was  Agnes,  who,  from 
the  moment  the  cry  of  carpet-bugs  was  raised  in  Holbur- 
ton,  had  spent  half  her  time  upon  her  hands  and  knees, 
searching  for  them  on  the  edges  of  the  carpets,  and  the 
rest  of  her  time  hunting  them  in  bundles,  and  boxes,  and 
drawers.  They  seemed  to  owe  her  a  special  spite,  for 
they  had  eaten  her  woolen  shawl,  and  her  furs,  and  her 
best  delaine  dress,  and  life  was  becoming  a  burden  to 
her,  when  she  received  Josephine's  letter,  begging  her  to 
come  at  once  to  the  Forrest  House. 

Always  ready  at  a  kind  word  to  forgive  her  sister  for 
any  amount  of  unkindness,  Agnes  decided  at  once  to  go, 
feeling  that  it  would  be  some  comfort  to  escape  from  the 
dreadful  bugs.  She  did  not  think  they  had  yet  reached 
Rothsay  ;  but  she  meant  to  make  it  her  first  business  to 
hunt  for  them,  and  equipped  herself  with  all  the  ingre- 
dients named  in  the  category  for  their  extirpation.  Per- 
sian powder,  red  pepper,  Scotch  snuff,  cut  tobacco,  Paris 
green,  hellebore,  and  even  Prussic  acid  formed  a  portion 
of  her  luggage  when  she  reached  the  Forrest  House,  and 
found  her  sister  so  ill  and  weak  that  for  a  time  she  had 
no  thought  for  carpet-bugs,  and  had  there  been  an  army 
there  they  would  have  reveled  in  perfect  security  for  all 
of  her  interference.  But  after  a  few  days,  when  Josephine 
seemed  better  and  was  sleeping  quietly,  the  desire  for 
research  and  battle  came  upon  her  again,  incited  by  the 
softness  of  the  velvet  carpet  in  her  sister's  room,  which 
she  thought  furnished  such  a  rich  field  for  I  he  marauders. 
As  it  happened,  the  bay-window  was  the  point  at  which 
she  commenced  operations,  as  it  was  farthest  from  Jo- 
sephine's bed. 

"  They  have  been  here,  too,"  was  her  whispered  ex- 
clamation as  she  caught  sight  of  the  familiar  sign,  the 
carpet  loosened  from  the  floor  ;  and  eager  in  her  search 
she  turned  the  carpet  back  farther  and  farther  until  she 
saw  the  corner  of  the  letter  just  protruding  in  sight.  To 
draw  it  out  and  glance  at  the  name  upon  it,  "J. 
Everard  Forrest,"  was  the  work  of  a  moment,  and  then 
she  wondered  how  it  came  there,  and  if  it  were  some  old 
thing  received  by  Everard  years  ago,  and  left  lying 
about  as  something  of  no  interest  to  him  or  anybody.  It 


350  AGNES    FINDS    THE    LETTER. 

looked  old  and  worn,  and  as  if  it  had  been  read  many 
times.  Surely  there  could  be  no  harm  in  her  glancing  at 
the  contents  just  to  see  if  it  were  of  any  value. 

Thus  reasoning,  Agnes  opened  the  letter,  saw  the 
signature  and  the  date,  and  then  with  lightning  rapidity 
read  the  whole,  and  Josephine's  secret  was  hers  no 
longer,  for  Agnes  had  it,  and  the  effect  on  her  at  first 
was  almost  as  great  as  it  had  been  on  Josephine.  That 
a  great  wrong  had  been  committed  she  was  certain,  just 
as  she  was  certain  that  the  letter  was  being  withheld 
from  its  rightful  owner.  But  by  whom?  That  was  the 
question  she  asked  herself  during  the  moment  she  sat 
motionless  upon  the  floor,  unable  to  move,  or  scarcely 
think  clearly,  in  her  bewildered  state  of  mind.  She  did 
not  quite  believe  it  was  Josephine,  and  if  not,  then  it 
must  be  Dr.  Matthewson,  and  he,  if  the  letter  were  true, 
was  capable  of  anything  wicked  and  bad  ;  and  there  came 
over  her  a  great  fear  of  him  just  as  it  had  crept  over 
Josephine  when  she  first  knew  his  sin.  Agnes  must  not 
let  him  know  what  she  had  found,  and,  believing  Jose- 
phine innocent,  she  must  not  disturb  her,  and  add  to  her 
nervousness.  Everard,  she  had  heard,  was  out  of  town 
for  a  little  vacation,  which  he  usually  took  at  that  sea- 
son, and  Miss  Belknap  was  therefore  the  only  person  in 
whom  she  could  safely  confide. 

"  She  will  know  just  what  to  do,"  Agnes  thought, 
and,  hiding  the  letter  in  her  pocket,  she  arranged  the 
carpet  and  curtains  very  carefully,  put  the  easy-chair  in 
its  place,  and  was  at  her  sewing  by  the  window  when 
Josephine  awoke,  after  a  sleep  of  nearly  two  hours'  dura- 
tion. 

She  was  feeling  better,  and  was  disposed  to  be  very 
kind  and  indulgent  toward  Agnes,  who,  she  saw,  was 
looking  tired  and  pale. 

"  Why,  Agnes,"  she  said,  "  you  are  almost  as  white 
as  I  am.  What  is  the  matter?  You  have  been  shut  up 
too  closely  with  rne.  You  have  not  been  out  since  you 
came,  and  you  are  so  accustomed  to  the  air  and  exercise. 
Suppose  you  go  for  a  walk.  I  am  sure  it  will  do  you 
good."  Now  was  Agnes'  opportunity,  and  saying  that 
she  thought  a  walk  would  do  her  good,  she  hurried  from 
the  room,  and  was  soon  on  her  way  towards  Elm  Park. 


AGNES    FINDS    THE    LETTER.  351 

Beatrice  was  going  to  be  married,  and  notwithstand- 
ing what  Dr.  Matthewson  had  said  of  her  faded  looks, 
she  had  never  been  so  beautiful  and  sweetly  attractive 
in  her  fresh  girlhood  as  she  was  now  at  twenty-nine, 
with  the  great  happiness  shining  in  her  face  and  show- 
ing itself  in  every  action.  Poor,  nervous  Mollie  was 
not  forgotten,  for  her  memory  lived  in  her  lovely  chil- 
dren, Trix  and  little  Bunchie  ;  but  Theodore  had  felt  it 
right  to  claim  at  last  his  early  love,  who  was  not 
ashamed  to  confess  how  dear  he  was  to  her  and  how  glad 
she  was  to  be  his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  children. 

The  wedding,  which  was  to  be  very  private,  was  to 
take  place  the  loth  of  September,  now  only  two  weeks 
in  the  distance,  and  Beatrice  was  exceedingly  busy  with 
her  preparations, — so  busy  that  she  had  not  found  time 
to  call  upon  Agnes,  as  she  intended  to  do  when  she 
heard  of  her  arrival  at  the  Forrest  House.  She  had  al- 
ways liked  Agnes,  and  was  glad  when  her  maid  came  to 
her  room  saying  that  she  was  in  the  parlor  waiting  to 
see  her. 

"Ask  her  to  come  up  here,"  she  said,  and  in  a  moment 
Agnes  was  with  her,  seeming  so  agitated  and  excited 
that  Beatrice  guessed  at  once  that  something  was  wrong, 
and  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

It  was  not  in  Agnes'  nature  to  keep  one  in  suspense, 
and  she  answered  by  putting  the  letter  into  Beatrice's 
hand  and  saying  : 

"  I  found  it  under  the  carpet,  and  because  I  dared 
not  show  it  to  him, — the  doctor,  I  mean, — who  I  am  sure 
put  it  there,  I  brought  it  to  you.  Read  it  quick,  and 
then  we  must  act  together  ;  but  never  let  him  know  I 
had  a  hand  in  it ;  he  would  kill  me  if  he  did  ;  there's 
murder  in  his  nature,  or  he  never  could  have  done  this." 

Agnes  was  speaking  to  ears  which  did  not  hear  what 
she  was  saying,  for  Bee  had  taken  the  letter,  post- 
marked at  "  Wien,"  and  addressed  in  a  handwriting  she 
knew  so  well,  and  the  very  sight  of  which  made  her 
heart  throb  with  pain  as  she  remembered  the  dear  little 
girl  whom  she  believed  to  be  dead  in  the  far-away  for- 
eign town.  But  when  she  glanced  at  the  date,  a  vague 
terror  seized  her  and  held  her  fast  while  she  read  the 
letter,  which  I  give  to  the  reader  : 


352  AGNES    FINDS    THE    LETTER. 


"  HAELDER-STRATTCHSEN,  Austria,  ) 


June  10th,  18 — . 

"DEAR  EVERARD  : — Are  you  dead?  Is  everybody 
dead  in  America,  that  I  am  forgotten, — deserted, — and 
left  here  alone  in  this  dreadful  place  ?  Not  dreadful 
because  they  are  unkind  to  me,  for  they  are  not.  Only 
they  say  that  I  am  mad,  and  treat  me  as  such,  and  I  al- 
ways have  an  attendant  watching  what  I  do,  and  I  can- 
not get  away,  though  I  have  tried  so  many  times. 
Where  my  brother  is  I  do  not  know  ;  he  left  me  here 
more  than  a  year  ago,  to  go  to  Vienna  for  a  day  or  two, 
he  said,  and  I  have  never  seen  him  since  or  heard  from 
him  ;  and  the  head  of  the  house, — Dr.  Van  Schoisner, 
says  that  he  is  undoubtedly  dead  ;  and  I  might  believe 
him,  perhaps,  if  he  did  not  insist  that  I  am  his  niece, 
Myra  Van  Schoisner,  and  not  Rosamond  Hastings  at  all. 
He  says  she  died  last  April,  a  year  ago,  and  was  buried 
by  the  river  which  I  can  see  from  my  window,  and  that 
her  brother,  Dr.  Matthewson,  left  soon  after  and  has  not 
returned. 

"Oh,  Everard,  it  is  all  so  dreadful,  and  sometimes 
my  head  buzzes  and  feels  so  big  that  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
go  crazy,  as  they  say  I  am.  I  have  written  and  written 
to  you  and  Bee  and  Lawyer  Russell,  and  even  to  my 
brother,  hoping  he  might  be  living  ;  but  no  answer  has 
come,  and  now  I  do  not  think  my  letters  ever  left  this 
Maison-de- Sante,  as  they  call  the  institution,  which 
stands  several  miles  back  from  the  Danube.  Take  the 

boat  at  Lintz,  and  get  off  at ,  and  come   quick,  and 

get  me  away  from  here  before  I  die.  I  wonder  I  have 
not  died  before  this,  it  is  so  awful  to  be  shut  up  and 
called  somebody  else,  and  hear  only  a  foreign  language, 
of  which  at  first  I  could  not  understand  a  word,  and 
they  tried  not  to  let  me  learn.  Only  the  doctor  speaks 
English,  and  a  woman  called  Yulah  Van  Eisner,  who 
came  as  attendant  two  months  ago,  and  who  has  prom- 
ised to  get  this  letter  off  for  me. 

"  I  spoke  brother's  name  to  her, — Dr.  Matthewson, — 
and  she  almost  foamed  at  the  mouth,  and  actually  spit 
upon  me  because  I  was  his  sister;  but  I  made  her  know  I 
was  good,  made  her  listen  to  me  ;  and  she  became  my 
friend,  and  taught  me  to  speak  with  her,  and  will  help 


AGNE8    FINDS    THE    LETTER.  353 

me  to  get  away  if  she  can.  She  says  ray  brother  is  not 
dead  ;  he  is  a  villain,  and  wants  my  money  ;  and  that 
Myra  Van  Schoisner  is  in  the  grave  where  they  say  I  am; 
and  it's  all  horrible,  and  I  am  so  sick  and  frightened,  and 
so  afraid  I  shall  be  mad  if  you  don't  come  quick. 
"Dear,  dear  Everard,  come  to  your  poor 

"ROSSIE." 

This  was  all  Rossie  had  written,  but  a  postscript  had 
been  added,  in  a  cramped,  uneducated  hand,  and  broken 
English,  to  this  effect  : 

"  I  open  this  paper  to  tell  when  comes  come  to  Hotel 
Bother  Krebs,  in  Lintz,  where  I  is  work  zu  hause,  and 
wait  for  die  Amerikaner.  Asks  for  Yulah  Van  Eisner. 
I  hates  him  much." 

To  say  that  Beatrice's  nerves  were  shaken  by  this  let- 
ter would  be  putting  in  very  mild  language  just  how 
she  felt.  With  her  usual  quickness  of  perception,  she 
saw  and  understood  the  diabolical  plot  which  had  been 
so  long  successful,  and  her  first  impulse  was  to  rush 
through  the  streets  of  Rothsay,  and,  proclaiming  the 
doctor's  perfidy,  have  him  arrested  at  once.  Her  next 
and  soberer  thought  was  to  proceed  in  the  matter  more 
quietly  and  surely,  and  to  this  end  she  questioned  Agnes 
minutely  as  to  where  and  how  she  found  the  letter,  and  if 
she  could  throw  any  light  upon  the  way  in  which  it  came 
there.  But  Agnes  could  not;  she  only  knew  she  had  found 
it,  and  that  she  believed  Dr.  Matthewson  himself  had  by 
some  foul  method  obtained  possession  of  it  and  hidden 
it  away  for  safe  keeping,  though  why  he  had  not  de- 
stroyed it  and  so  made  its  discovery  impossible,  neither 
she  nor  Beatrice  could  guess.  Her  sister,  she  said,  was 
in  a  very  strange,  nervous  state  of  mind,  but  she  could 
not  connect  her  with  the  crime  in  any  way,  for,  unscru- 
pulous as  she  might  be,  she  would  not  dare  make  herself 
amenable  to  the  law  by  being  a  party  to  her  husband's 
guilt. 

This  was  Agnes'  view  of  the  matter,  and  Beatrice 
coincided  with  her,  but  bade  her  to  be  very  watchful 
at  the  Forrest  House  and  see  if  any  search  was  made  for 
the  missing  letter,  and  by  whom. 


354  AGNES    FINDS    THE    LETTER. 

Beatrice's  next  interview  was  with  Lawyer  Russell, 
who,  in  his  surprise,  bounded  from  his  chair  half  way 
across  the  room  as  he  exclaimed  : 

"Lord  bless  my  soul,  Rossie  alive  !  Rossie  not  dead  ! 
but  hid  away  in  a  private  mad-house  !  It's  the  most 
hellish  plot  I  ever  heard  of, — ever, — and  it  is  State 
prison  for  him,  the  villain  ;  but  we  must  move  cautious- 
ly, Miss  Belknap,  very  cautiously,  as  we  have  the  very 
Old  Nick  to  deal  with  in  that  doctor.  I'm  glad  the  boy 
is  gone  just  now,  as  it  would  have  been  like  you  to  have 
blated  it  out  to  him,  and  then  all  creation  couldn't  have 
stopped  him  from  throttling  the  wretch  in  the  street  and 
spoiling  everything.  This  letter  was  written  long  ago, 
and  there's  no  knowing  what  may  have  happened  since 
to  our  little  girl.  She  may  be  dead  sure  enough  now, 
or,  what  is  worse,  mad  in  real  earnest.  So  don't  go  to 
kicking  up  a  row  just  yet,  till  we  get  more  proof,  and 
then  we'll  spring  the  trap  so  tight  that  he  cannot  get 
away.  I'm  honestly  afraid,  though,  that  he  has  done 
something  worse  wiih  the  little  girl  since  he  had  this 
letter,  which  the  Lord  only  knows  how  he  got.  He  must 
have  a  key  to  Everard's  drawer  ;  but  we'll  fix  him  !  and, 
Miss  Belknap,  I  say,  you  or  somebody  must  go  to  Europe 
and  hunt  up  poor  little  Rossie.  I'll  be  hanged  if  it  don't 
make  me  cry  to  think  of  her  shut  up,  and  waiting  and 
waiting  for  us  to  corne.  Go  on  your  wedding  trip.  You 
and  the  parson  will  do  better  than  Everard,  whose  name 
they  have  heard,  and  for  whom  they  may  be  on  the 
watch.  Morton  is  new  to  them,  and  will  excite  no  sus- 
picion. This  girl, — what's  her  name, — Yulah  Van  Eisner, 
must  be  found  first,  of  course,  if  she  is  not  already  put 
out  of  the  way,  and  with  her  help  you'll  fetch  her,  poor 
little  girl.  You  ought  to  go  right  away,  and  we'll  say 
nothing  to  Everard  till  you've  found  her.  Suspense  and 
then  disappointment  would  kill  him  outright.  And  he 
must  not  go  ;  that  hound  would  track  him  sure,  and 
everything  be  spoiled.  You  must  do  it,  and  you  can, 
better  than  anybody  else." 

Beatrice  felt  that  she  could  too,  and  had  rapidly 
concocted  in  her  mind  a  denouement  both  startling  and 
novel,  and  highly  satisfactory.  But  there  was  one  diffi- 
culty to  be  surmounted.  Theodore's  people  might  not 


AONES    FINDS    THE    LETTER.  355 

be  willing  for  him  to  be  gone  so  long,  and  in  that  case 
she  said  : 

"  I'll  postpone  the  wedding  and  go  alone." 

But  this  was  not  necessary,  for,  in  response  to  the 
long  letter  which  went  that  night  to  Boston,  there 
came  a  telegram,  "I  can  go!"  and  then  all  Bee's 
thoughts  were  turned  to  the  work  she  had  on  hand, 
and  she  grew  so  restless  and  nervous  and  impatient  for 
the  day  when  she  could  start  that  people  noted  and 
commented  upon  her  changed  looks  and  manner,  won- 
dering greatly  what  ailed  her,  and  if  her  heart  were 
not  in  the  marriage. 

Everard  was  in  Rothsay  now,  and  with  her  every 
evening,  talking  always  of  Rossie,  whose  grave  he  bade 
her  be  sure  and  find,  and  bring  him  something  from  it, 
if  only  a  blade  of  grass.  Once  he  startled  her  by  saying 
he  had  half  made  up  his  mind  to  join  her  party,  and  go 
with  her,  so  great  was  his  desire  to  see  where  Rossie 
was  buried.  But  Bee  turned  upon  him  so  fiercely,  de- 
claring that  she  preferred  going  alone  with  Theo,  that 
he  abandoned  the  plan  altogether,  and  felt  a  little  hurt 
at  the  vehemence  with  which  his  company  had  been 
rejected. 

The  wedding  was  very  quiet  and  small,  and  the  bride 
very  absent-minded  and  non-committal  in  her  answers 
to  their  inquiries  as  to  where  she  was  going,  and  how 
long  she  expected  to  be  gone.  But  whatever  they 
might  have  thought  of  her,  the  bridegroom  was  per- 
fectly satisfied,  and  seemed  supremely  happy  as  he  bade 
his  friends  good-by,  and  followed  his  impatient  wife  into 
the  car  which  was  to  take  them  to  New  York,  and  the 
ship,  whicl),  on  the  15th  of  September,  sailed  away  for 
Europe,  where  they  hoped  to  find  poor  Rossie. 

Agnes  was  at  the  wedding,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  Lawyer  Russell,  was  the  only  one  who  had  the  slight- 
est suspicion  of  the  reason  which  had  taken  the  newly- 
wedded  pair  so  suddenly  to  Europe.  But  Agnes  was 
safe  as  the  grave,  though  often  at  her  wits'  end  to  know 
what  to  make  of  her  sister,  who  grew  worse  instead  of 
better,  and  who  sometimes  talked  and  acted  as  if  she 
had  lost  her  reason.  She  had  missed  the  letter  from  its 
hiding-place,  and  gone  nearly  wild  in  her  excitement  and 


356  LA    MAISON    DE    SANTE. 

anxiety  as  to  who  bad  found  it.  But  as  her  husband's 
manner  was  unchanged,  except  as  he  fretted  at  her  con- 
tinued illness,  she  gradually  grew  more  quiet,  though 
there  was  constantly  with  her  a  presentiment  of  some 
great  evil  which  was  to  be  brought  about  by  means  of 
the  lost  letter. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

LA   MAISON    DE   SANTE. 

UST  where  it  was  situated,  how  far  from 
Vienna,  how  far  from  Lintz,  or  how  far  from 
the  Danube,  does  not  matter  to  the  reader, 
who  needs  only  to  know  that  there  was  such 
a  place,  embowered  in  trees,  and  flowers,  and 
shrubs,  and  seeming  to  the  casual  passer-by  like  a  second 
little  Eden,  where  one  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy 
the  brightness  of  the  Austrian  skies,  and  the  beauty  of 
the  premises  around.  But  every  door  was  barred,  and 
every  window  had  a  net-work  of  iron  in  front  of  it, 
through  which  white,  haggard  faces  looked  wistfully,  and 
strange,  wild  laughs,  mingled  sometimes  with  cries  of 
rage,  were  heard  to  issue  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  Fre- 
quently the  inmates  of  that  house,  or  those  who  were  on 
the  "good  list,"  walked  in  the  beautiful  grounds,  but 
never  walked  alone.  An  attendant  was  always  with 
them,  watchful,  vigilant,  without,  however,  seeming  to 
be  so  ;  for  the  rule  of  the  house  was  kindness,  whenever 
it  would  answer,  and  as  much  freedom  as  was  compatible 
with  safety.  Except  in  extreme  cases,  where  the  patient 
was  poor  and  obscure,  it  was  not  a  cruelly  conducted 
household  which  Baron  or  Doctor  Van  Schoisner  had  in 
charge  ;  but  in  all  the  world  there  was  not,  perhaps,  a 
more  avaricious,  grasping  man  than  the  baron,  who  would 
have  sold  his  soul  for  thirty  pieces  of  silver,  and  for 
forty  almost  have  consented  to  a  murder.  If,  for  pur- 
poses of  their  own,  people  wished  to  incarcerate  their 


LA    MAISON    DE    8ANTE.  357 

friends,  and  paid  him  well  for  it,  their  secret  was  safe 
with  him,  and  the  victim  was  insane  as  long  as  he  lived, 
if  necessary.  But  there  his  wickedness  ceased,  and  his 
patients  were  generally  made  as  happy  and  comfortable 
as  it  was  possible  to  make  them.  He,  alone,  held  the 
secrets  of  his  employers.  Not  a  whisper  of  the  truth 
ever  escaped  his  lips,  and  to  his  attendants  everybody 
was  crazy,  and  must  be  watched  and  treated  as  such,  no 
matter  what  were  their  pretensions  to  the  contrary  ;  so 
when  poor  little  Rossie  awoke  one  morning  to  find  her- 
Belf  deserted,  she  became  at  once  a  lunatic.  All  liberty 
of  action  was  gone  ;  even  her  name  was  taken  from  her, 
and  she  was  told  that  the  Rosamond  Hastings  who  she 
professed  to  be,  was  dead,  and  lying  under  the  grass 
where  the  wild  violets  were  growing,  while  she  was 
Jlft/ra,  the  niece  of  the  baron,  who  had  come  to  the 
house  the  same  night  with  the  beautiful  American  girl 
who  was  so  sick,  and  who  had  died  in  a  few  days.  No 
wonder  if  for  a  time  her  brain  reeled,  and  she  was  in 
danger  of  being  in  reality  insane. 

Poor  little  Rossie  had  enjoyed  much  and  suffered 
much  since  the  day  when  we  last  saw  her,  waving  a 
farewell  to  her  friends  from  the  deck  of  the  steamer 
which  bore  her  away.  Her  brother  had  been  uniformly 
kind  and  affectionate  to  her,  but  many  things  had  arisen 
to  shake  her  confidence  in  him,  and  to  make  her  think  it 
possible  that  he  was  not  the  honorable,  upright  man  he 
professed  to  be.  Then,  as  the  year  wore  on,  and  they 
got  farther  and  farther  from  home,  her  letters  were 
unanswered,  and  there  began  to  steal  over  her  a  long- 
ing for  America  which  she  could  not  conceal,  and 
which  took  all  the  color  from  her  face  and  roundness 
from  her  form,  until  at  last  she  was  really  sick  with  hope 
deferred  and  an  anxiety  to  know  why  none  of  her  letters 
were  answered. 

At  Florence  she  was  very  ill  of  a  fever  contracted  in 
Rome,  and  from  the  effects  of  which  she  did  not  recover, 
although  she  was  able  at  last  to  go  on  toward  Vienna, 
their  ultimate  destination.  At  Salzburg  they  halted  for 
a  few  days,  and  there  her  brother  brought  to  her  a 
stranger,  whom  he  introduced  as  a  friend  and  old  ac- 
quaintance, Dr.  Van  Schoisner,  to  whom  he  said  he 


358  LA    MAISON   DE    8ANTE. 

owed  his  life,  and  who  had  a  kind  of  Sanitarium  for 
people  diseased  in  body  and  mind,  upon  the  river  Dan- 
ube. Van  Schoisner,  who  spoke  English  very  well,  was 
exceedingly  kind  and  tender  in  his  manner  toward  Ros- 
sie,  whom  he  questioned  so  closely,  and  in  such  a  pecu- 
liar way,  that  she  first  was  annoyed,  and  then  confused 
and  bewildered,  and  finally  contradicted  herself  two  or 
three  times  in  her  statements  with  regard  to  her  recent 
illness,  and  when  he  asked  how  she  would  like  to  go  to 
his  beautiful  place  on  the  river  and  stay  a  few  weeks 
while  he  treated  her,  she  shrank  away  from  him,  and 
bursting  into  tears  said  she  would  not  like  it  at  all, — that 
she  did  not  need  to  be  treated,  as  there  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  her  but  homesickness,  and  only  America 
could  cure  that. 

Van  Schoisner  laughed,  and  stroked  her  hair,  and 
said  he  would  soon  have  her  all  right,  and  then  went  to 
her  brother,  between  whom  and  himself  there  was  a 
long  conference,  during  which  both  sold  themselves, 
body  and  soul,  to  the  evil  one,  and  were  pledged  to  do 
his  work. 

"If  she  would  only  abandon  that  nonsense  of  hers 
about  giving  her  fortune  to  that  Forrest,  as  soon  as  she 
comes  of  age,  and  would  share  it  with  me,  I  wouldn't  do 
it,  for,  by  Jove,  I've  a  kind  of  liking  for  the  girl,"  Dr. 
Matthewson  said,  as  there  came  a  little  prick  of  con- 
science, and  a  drawing  back  from  the  thing  he  proposed  to 
do,  which  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  burying  Rossie 
alive  inside  a  mad-house,  where,  so  long  as  the  price  was 
paid,  she  would  be  as  really  dead  to  the  world  as  if  the 
grass  were  growing  over  her,  and  where  the  chances 
were  that  she  would  either  die  a  speedy  death,  or,  with 
her  temperament,  become  a  hopeless  lunatic. 

Money  lie  must  have,  and  as  he  believed  in  neither 
God  nor  the  devil,  he  had  no  scruples  as  to  how  he  got 
it,  only  he  would  a  little  rather  not  murder  one  outright 
to  get  it.  Every  argument  which  he  could  think  of  had 
been  brought  to  bear  upon  Rossie,  with  a  view  to  induc- 
ing here  to  keep  the  fortune  willed  her,  but  she  had 
stood  firm  as  a  rock  in  her  decision  to  make  the  whole 
over  to  Everard  as  soon  as  she  came  of  age,  and  so  he  had 
recourse  to  the  horrid  scheme  of  which  we  have  hinted. 


LA    MAISON    DE    SANTE.  359 

He  knew  Van  Schoisner  well,  and  knew  that  he  was 
the  man  for  any  deed,  however  dark, — provided  there 
was  money  in  it,  with  little  chance  of  detection  ;  and  he 
sent  for  him  to  meet  them  at  Salzburg  to  confer  on  im- 
portant business.  So  Van  Schoisner  went  and  found 
what  the  business  was,  and  talked  to  Rossie  about  her 
head,  and  brain,  and  cerebellum,  until  she  lost  her  wits 
and  said  she  hadn't  any  cerebellum,  and  never  had.  She 
was  homesick,  and  that  was  all.  This,  of  course,  was 
proof  conclusive  of  a  diseased  state  of  mind.  A  girl 
who  hadn't  any  cerebellum,  and  who  persisted  in  throw- 
ing away  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars,  must  be  insane 
and  dealt  with  accordingly.  So  the  bargain  was  made, 
and  Rossie's  fate  was  sealed.  And  then  arose  the  ques- 
tion of  the  friends  at  home.  What  should  be  said  to 
them  to  quiet  all  suspicion  ? 

"  She  must  be  dead,  of  course,"  Van  Schoisner  said. 
"Nothing  easier  than  that.  A  notice  in  the  paper;  a 
letter  containing  particulars ;  crape  on  your  hat  ;  a 
tear  in  your  eye,  and  the  thing  is  accomplished." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  doctor,  "  but  suppose  that  chap 
who  is  in  love  with  her  takes  it  into  his  head  to  come 
spooning  after  her  grave,  and  inquires  about  her  death, 
and  wants  to  see  the  very  room,  and  all  that, — and  it 
would  be  like  him  to  do  it, — what  then?" 

Van  Schoisner  rubbed  his  forehead  thoughtfully  a 
moment,  and  then  said  :  . 

"  That's  the  hardest  part  to  manage,  but  I  think  I 
can  do  it,  only  give  me  time.  I  have  a  niece  in  the 
country  a  few  miles  from  here,  very  sick  with  consump- 
tion,— in  the  last  stages,  and  poor,  too,  with  no  friends 
but  myself.  I  pay  her  board  where  she  is,  and  visit  her 
sometimes.  She  was  born  in  London,  her  father  was  an 
Englishman  ;  so  she  speaks  English  perfectly,  and  might 
be  your  sister.  I  have  talked  of  taking  her  to  Haelder- 
Strauchsen,  and  will  do  so  at  once,  though  the  journey 
will  shorten  her  life.  But  that  will  not  matter,  as  she 
must  die  soon.  Once  at  Haelder-Strauchsen  she  is  your 
sister,  and  your  sister  is  my  niece.  The  attendants 
pever  ask  questions  nor  talk.  Do  you  comprehend  ?" 

Dr.  Matthewson  thought  he  did,  but  left  the  matter 


360  LA    MAISON   DE    SANTE. 

wholly  to  his  ally,  who  had,  if  possible,  drank  deeper 
from  the  cup  of  iniquity  than  himself. 

As  the  result  of  this  conversation  there  was  brought 
to  the  hotel  a  few  days  later  a  white-faced,  fair-haired 
girl,  in  whose  great  blue  eyes  and  about  whose  mouth 
and  nose  death  was  plainly  written.  They  called  her 
Myra,  and  said  she  was  Van  Schoisner's  niece,  whom 
he  was  taking  to  his  home  for  better  care  than  she  could 
have  in  the  country.  No  one  attended  her.  Her  uncle 
could  do  all  that  was  necessary,  he  said,  and  he  seemed 
very  kind  to  her,  and  staid  by  her  constantly  upon  the 
boat  when  at  last  they  started  for  home,  accompanied 
by  Dr.  Matthewson  and  Rossie,  who  was  greatly  in- 
terested in  the  sick  girl.  It  was  night  when  they 
reached  the  landing  where  they  were  to  stop,  and  from 
the  windows  of  the  close  carriage  Rossie  saw  nothing 
of  the  country  through  which  they  passed  for  a  few 
iniles,  but  was  conscious  at  last  that  they  were  entering 
spacious  grounds,  and  stopping  before  a  large,  square 
building,  with  two  wings  on  either  side. 

The  room  assigned  her  was  in  one  of  the  wings  on 
the  third  floor,  as  was  Myra's  also.  It  was  very  prettily 
furnished,  and  the  windows  looked  out  upon  the  grounds, 
but  there  was  stretched  before  them  a  gauzy  net-work 
of  iron,  which  Rossie  noticed  at  once,  and  asked  for  the 
reason.  Then  her  brother  explained  to  her  the  real 
character  of  the  house,  but  said  that  as  they  were  tran- 
sient visitors  it  would  not  affect  them  in  the  least,  and 
all  she  had  to  do  was  to  rest  and  get  as  well  as  possible, 
so  they  might  go  on  to  Vienna. 

And  Rossie  tried  to  rest  and  enjoy  the  beautiful 
place,  but  the  occasional  sight  of  some  of  the  patients 
walking  in  the  distance,  the  strange  sounds,  like  human 
cries,  which  reached  her  in  the  night  when  everything 
was  still,  and,  more  than  all,  a  great  languor  and  desire 
to  sleep  which  she  could  not  shake  off,  wore  upon  her 
so  fast  that  in  a  few  days  she  was  seriously  ill  again, 
and  lost  all  consciousness  of  time  or  what  was  passing 
around  her.  How  long  she  remained  in  this  condition 
she  never  knew;  only  this,  that  she  awoke  one  morning 
to  find  Van  Schoisner  with  her,  apparently  watching  her 
as  she  slept,  and  administering  some  powerful  stimulants. 


LA     MAISON    DE    SANTE.  361 

He  was  very  kind,  indeed,  and  told  her  Dr.  Matthewson 
had  been  obliged  to  go  to  Vienna  on  business,  which 
might  detain  him  a  few  days,  but  he  would  soon  be  back, 
and  she  was  to  be  as  happy  and  quiet  as  possible  till  his 
return.  Her  next  question  was  for  the  sick  girl,  who,  he 
said,  had  died  a  week  ago,  and  then  he  bade  her  try  to 
sleep  again,  as  perfect  rest  was  what  she  needed  most. 

"  And  I  went  to  sleep,"  Rossie  said,  afterward,  when 
telling  Beatrice  of  that  awful  time  when  she  was  kept  a 
prisoner  at  Haelder-Strauchsen,  with  no  hope  of  escape. 
"  I  went  to  sleep  and  slept  so  heavily  and  long  that  it 
must  have  been  days  before  I  awoke,  and  when  I  did, 
my  head  ached  so  hard,  and  everything  seemed  so  con- 
fused, and  I  could  not  understand  a  word  the  woman 
said,  for  she  spoke  only  German,  which  I  never  could 
make  out.  I  tried  to  make  her  know  that  I  wanted  my 
brother,  but  she  shook  her  head  and  put  her  finger  to  her 
lips,  and  finally  went  out  and  locked  the  door  after  her. 
Then  I  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  and  leaned  my 
head  against  the  bars,  and  cried  for  home,  and  you,  and 
Everard,  till  I  felt  so  sick  and  dizzy  that  I  went  back  to 
bed,  and  lay  there  till  Van  Schoisner  came  and  told  me 
nothing  had  been  heard  from  Dr.  Matthewson  since  he 
left  the  Sanitarium,  two  weeks  before. 

"  *  I  certainly  expected  him  to  return,'  he  said,  '  and 
am  afraid  some  evil  has  befallen  him.  I  have  written  to 
the  hotel  where  he  intended  to  stop,  and  they  have  not 
seen  him.' 

"  He  called  him  Dr.  Matthewson  all  the  time,  as 
formal-like  as  if  he  had  not  been  my  brother,  and  once 
he  called  me  Myra,  and  when  I  said  he  was  mistaken,  for  I 
was  Rossie  Hastings,  he  smiled  kind  of  pityingly,  and  said  : 

"  *  Poor  little  girl,  be  anything  you  like  to  yourself. 
To  me  you  are  Myra.  Rossie  died  just  across  the  hall, 
and  is  buried  in  such  a  pretty  spot.' 

"  I  thought  he  was  crazy,  and  felt  afraid  of  him,  but 
had  no  suspicion  then  of  the  real  state  of  things.  That 
came  gradually,  as  days  and  weeks  went  by  and  I  heard 
nothing  from  my  brother,  and  seldom  saw  any  one  but 
the  doctor  and  the  attendant,  Margotte,  who  never  talked 
with  me  except  by  signs,  sol  had  no  opportunity  to  learn 
the  language,  which  I  greatly  desired  to  do,  in  order  to 

16 


362  LA    MAISON    DE    SANTE. 

make  myself  understood,  and  convince  her  that  I  was  not 
Myra,  and  was  not  mad,  as  I  knew  she  believed  me  to  be. 

"  Oh,  it  was  so  horrible  that  time,  and  my  head  got 
so  confused,  and  I  used  to  pray  constantly  '  God  keep 
me  from  going  really  mad  !'  and  he  did,  though  I  was 
very  near  it.  At  first  they  would  not  let  me  have  paper 
or  ink  to  write  to  you  with,  but  I  begged  so  hard  on  my 
knees,  clinging  to  that  man's  feet,  that  he  consented  at 
last,  and  I  wrote  to  you,  and  Everard,  and  Lawyer  Rus- 
sell, and  my  brother,  too,  though  I  did  not  know  where 
he  was,  and  Margotte  took  the  letters,  which  I  know 
now  were  never  sent,  but  were  burned  to  ashes,  for 
Yulah  told  me  so, — good,  kind  Yulah,  who  came  to  me 
like  an  angel  from  Heaven. 

"  Margotte  was  sick,  and  Yulah  took  her  place.  She 
had  been  there  once  as  a  patient,  mad  herself,  from  some 
great  wrong  done  to  her  by  one  she  loved  and  trusted. 
Her  baby  had  died  there,  and  been  buried  in  the  grounds, 
and  she  was  attached  to  the  place,  and  after  her  cure, 
staid  from  choice,  and  was  nurse  and  attendant  both, 
and  the  most  faithful  and  vigilant  of  them  all,  and  the  one 
the  doctor  trusted  the  most.  So  he  put  me  in  her  charge, 
and  the  moment  I  saw  her  sweet,  sad  face,  and  looked 
into  her  eyes,  which  seemed  always  ready  to  run  over 
with  tears,  I  loved  her,  and  put  my  tired  head  in  her 
lap,  and  cried  like  a  child. 

" '  Q'avez  vous,  petite  Myra  ?'  she  said,  and  then  I 
knew  she  spoke  French,  and  my  heart  gave  a  great 
bound,  for  I  knew  I  could  talk  with  her  a  little,  and  I 
mustered  all  my  knowledge  of  the  language  and  told  her 
I  was  not  Myra  at  all ;  I  was  Rosamond  Hastings,  from 
America  ;  shut  up,  detained  there  unlawfully,  for  what 
reason  I  did  not  know  ;  that  I  had  written  and  written 
home  and  nobody  had  answered  me,  and  the  doctor  said 
my  brother,  who  came  with  me,  was  dead,  but  I  did  not 
believe  it ;  and  a  great  deal  more,  to  which  she  listened 
patiently,  as  one  might  listen  to  the  meaningless  prattle 
of  a  child. 

"  But  when  I  mentioned  brother's  name,  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  shaking  me  off  asked  fiercely,  '  votrefrere, 
comment  s1  appelle-t-ilf  I  told  her  again,  '  Dr.  Matthew- 
son  ;  Dr.  John  Matthewson,  from  America,'  and  for  a  few 


LA    MAISON    DE    SANTE.  363 

moments  she  acted  as  if  she  were  perfectly  insane,  and 
glaring  at  me  with  her  terrible  eyes,  she  spit  upon  me 
and  demanded,  'You  are  sure  you  are  his  sister  ?  You 
are  nothing  else  to  him,  though  that  is  bad  enough  ?' 

"  I  made  her  believe  at  last,  and  then  she  asked  me 
so  many  questions  that  before  I  knew  it  I  had  told  her 
all  about  the  Forrest  House,  and  the  will,  and  Everard, 
and  everything,  she  all  the  time  looking  straight  at  me 
with  her  great  bright  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be  reading 
me  to  see  if  I  were  telling  the  truth. 

"'I  see,  I  see,  I  understand.  Poor  child,  God  sent 
me  here  to  be  your  friend,  and  I  will  !'  she  said,  when  I 
had  finished;  and  then  she  broke  out  angrily  against  my 
brother,  whom  she  called  a  villain,  a  murderer,  a  rascal, 
and  said  he  had  done  her  a  terrible  wrong,  which  she  had 
sworn  to  avenge,  and  she  saw  a  way  by  which  she  could 
keep  her  word. 

" '  I  go  to  America  myself,  but  what  your  friends 
shall  know,'  she  said,  and  to  my  great  delight  she  spoke 
to  me  now  in  English,  but  whispered  very  low.  '  It  is 
better  they  not  to  know  I  can  talk  in  your  tongue,  and 
they  not  suspect ;  and  I  must  be  very  strict,  watch  you 
very  much  is  my  order,  because  you  dangerous,  you  try 
to  kill  yourself,  he  say,  and  I  never  let  yon  from  my 
sight.  But  I  fix  'em.  I  cheat.  I  have  my  revenge 
much,  You  will  see  what  I  do.'" 

This  was  in  part  the  story  told  afterwards  to  Bea- 
trice by  Rossie,  who  did  not  then  know  that  Yulah  Van 
Eisner  was  the  girl  who  had  once  pleaded  so  piteously 
for  justice  at  the  hands  of  Dr.  Matthewson,  and  been  by 
him  spurned  with  contempt,  which  had  turned  her  love 
into  bitter  hatred.  She  saw  no  reason  to  discredit  Ros- 
sie's  story,  and  understood  readily  why  she  had  been 
immured  in  a  living  tomb,  and  guessed  that  to  her  friends 
at  home  she  was  supposed  to  be  dead,  and  that  the 
knavish  brother  had  the  inheritance.  She  did  not,  how- 
ever, communicate  all  her  suspicions  to  her  charge,  as 
she  did  not  wish  to  wound  her  unnecessarily,  but  she 
meant  to  get  her  away,  and  set  herself  steadily  to  that 
object.  Through  her  influence  writing  materials  were 
again  furnished  to  Rossie,  who,  acting  upon  Yulah's 
advice,  wrote  two  letters  to  Everard,  one  of  which  went 


364  THE    ESCAPE. 

into  Von  Schoisner's  hands  and  was  burned  as  usual, 
while  the  other  was  secreted  about  Yulah's  person  and 
found  its  way  to  America,  but  not  until  some  time  had 
elapsed,  and  Yulah  had  given  up  her  situation  to  Mar- 
gotte,  with  the  understanding,  however,  that  there  was 
always  a  place  for  her  in  the  Maison  de  Sante,  either  as 
attendant  or  nurse,  when  she  chosq  to  return. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE  ESCAPE. 

HERE  were  not  as  many  visitors  as  usual  that 
season  in  Lintz,  and  those  who  did  come  were 
mostly  English  or  French,  who  did  not  spend 
their  money  as  freely  as  the  Americans  were 
accustomed  to  do,  so  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
rejoicing  to  the  master  of  the  Rother  Krebs  when  one 
afternoon  in  October  the  stage  brought  from  the  station 
two  passengers  whom,  with  his  quick  eye,  he  set  down 
as  Americans,  and  bustled  out  to  meet  them,  deciding 
that  they  were  people  who  would  not  stand  for  a  few 
thalers  more  or  less.  Beatrice  was  very  tired,  for  they 
had  not  stopped  at  all  since  landing  in  Liverpool,  but  had 
crossed  at  once  to  the  Continent,  and  traveled  day  and 
night  until  they  reached  Lintz,  where  Yulah  was  waiting 
for  them.  She  had  sought  and  obtained  the  situation  as 
chambermaid  in  the  hotel,  and,  like  the  master,  had 
watched  impatiently  for  Americans,  though  from  a  very 
different  reason.  And  when  her  Americans  came,  she 
knew  them  as  if  by  instinct,  taking  Mr.  Morton,  how- 
ever, for  Everard,  and  feeling  greatly  disappointed  when 
she  learned  that  it  was  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morton,  who  were 
occupying  No.  — ,  the  great  room  in  the  house  where 
princes  had  dined  and  slept.  Still,  something  told  her 
that  Beatrice  was  the  lady  she  was  looking  for,  and  when 
the  latter  retired  to  her  room  after  dinner  she  found  a 
sad-faced  woman  pretending  to  be  busy  with  something 


THE    ESCAPE.  865 

about  the  washstand,  though  everything  seemed  in  its 
place.  Suddenly  she  faced  about,  and  the  eyes  of  the 
two  women  met  and  looked  into  each  other  with  an 
eager,  questioning  gaze. 

"  You  are  Yulah,"  Beatrice  said,  in  German,  and  the 
girl  answered  with  a  cry  of  joy,  "Yes,  and  you  are  the 
Lady  Beatrice  she  talks  so  much  about,  and  he  is  not 
Mr.  Everard." 

"No,  my  husband,  Mr.  Morton.  We  were  married 
just  before  we  sailed.  Where  is  she?  When  did  you 
see  her  last,  and  how  soon  can  we  have  her?  Will 
they  let  her  go  without  any  trouble,  and  what  are  we 
to  do  ?" 

Beatrice  asked  her  questions  so  rapidly  as  to  confuse 
and  bewilder  the  girl,  who  shook  her  head,  and  answered 
in  English  : 

"  You  ask  so  many,  I  don't  know  quite  all.  But  I 
go  to-morrow  and  tell  her,  and  see  how  we  can  do  best. 
He  will  never  let  her  go,  there  is  too  much  money  in  her. 
That  doctor  pay  big  sums.  We  must  take  her,  that's  all, 
and  be  so  careful.  You  stay  here  till  I  come  or  send 
some  word  :  not  to-morrow,  but  next  day,  perhaps.  I 
not  talk  more  now.  I  be  at  my  duties." 

She  left  the  room  then,  and  Beatrice  saw  no  more 
of  her  until  the  day  but  one  following,  when  about  dark 
she  came  into  the  room,  flushed  and  excited,  and  evi- 
dently a  little  shaken  out  of  her  usual  quiet,  composed 
manner.  She  had  been  to  Haelder-Strauchsen  ;  she  had 
seen  Rossie,  but  had  not  told  her  of  her  friends' arrival. 

"I  did  not  dare,"  she  said,  "she's  so  weak  and  sick, 
no  heart,  no  courage,  but  stands  by  the  window  all  the 
day,  looking  to  the  west,  and  whispering,  sometimes, 
'Oh,  Everard,  why  do  you  not  come,  and  I  waiting  so 
long  ?'  But  we'll  get  her  sure.  God  fixed  it  for  us,  and 
he, — the  doctor,  I  mean, — is  awful  with  something  they 
think  is  cholera,  and  all  is  fright  and  confusion,  for  the 
nurses  is  afraid  and  leaving,  and  Miss  Rossie's  attendant 
is  glad  to  have  me  take  her  place.  So  I  am  going  back 
to-morrow,  and  you  must  go  with  me  and  stay  in  the 
town  a  mile  away,  until  I  send  or  bring  you  word  what 
you  do  next.  You  are  not  afraid  of  cholera?  Americans 
mostly  is." 


366  THE    ESCAPE. 

Bee  was.  mortally  afraid  of  it,  but  she  would  have 
faced  death  itself  for  the  sake  of  recovering  Rossie,  and 
it  was  arranged  that  they  should  take  the  boat  the  next 
day  for  the  little  town  near  the  Maison  de  Sante,  where 
Yulah  told  them  there  was  a  comfortable  inn,  where  they 
could  remain  in  quiet  as  long  as  they  liked.  Travelers, 
especially  Americans,  often  stopped  there,  she  said,  and 
their  being  there  would  awaken  no  suspicion.  Accord- 
ingly, the  next  afternoon  found  them  occupants  of  a 
pleasant  chamber  in  the  inn,  with  an  outlook  to  the  river 
and  another  to  the  road  which  led  out  to  La  Maison  de 
Sante.  Yulah  had  come  with  them  on  the  boat  as  second- 
class  passenger,  and  had  held  no  communication  what- 
ever with  them,  lest  suspicion  might  in  some  way  be 
aroused  ;  and  immediately  after  landing  had  taken  the 
road  to  the  Sanitarium,  while  Beatrice  tried  in  vain  to 
keep  composed  and  quiet,  and  await  the  turn  of  events. 
That  she  should  actually  see  Rossie  that  night  she  could 
not  realize,  and  when  about  dark  a  note  was  brought  her 
by  a  little  boy,  her  limbs  trembled  so  violently,  and  she 
felt  so  faint  and  giddy,  as  to  be  scarcely  able  to  read  it. 

The  note  was  as  foUows  : 

"Have  a  big  carriage  at  the  south  gate,  one  little 
ways  off,  at  eleven  to-night.  Get  Michel  Fahen, — he  my 
friend  ;  this  his  little  boy  ;  he  keep  the  carriages." 

That  seemed  to  bring  Rossie  very  near,  and  Bee's 
face  was  white  as  ashes  as  she  questioned  the  boy,  who 
said  Michael  Fahen  was  his  father,  and  rented  carriages 
to  people,  and  if  she  liked  he  would  bring  him  to  the 
room.  Michel  was  a  powerfully-built  man,  who  looked 
as  if  he  could  keep  a  whole  army  at  bay  by  the  sheer 
strength  of  his  fists,  and  when  told  what  was  wanted  of 
him,  or  rather  that  he  was  to  wait  with  them  near  the 
south  gate  of  the  Maison  de  Sante  at  eleven  that  night, 
shot  at  them  a  keen,  quick  glance  of  intelligence  and 
comprehension  which  made  Beatrice  sick  with  fear,  lest, 
after  all,  they  should  fail.  But  his  words  and  manner 
were  reassuring.  He  could  guess  what  they  wanted,  and 
he  was  the  man  to  do  it.  He  did  not  believe  in  the 
place  ;  there  were  many  there  who  ought  to  be  out. 
Yes,  he'd  help  her  ;  he'd  drive  them  to  Vienna,  if  neces- 


THE    ESCAPE.  367 

sary  ;  he  knew  the  south  gate,  in  the  rear  of  the  house, 
opening  on  a  lonesome  and  unfrequented  road. 

"  And  I  shall  succeed,"  he  said.  "  Michel  Fahen 
never  fails;  arms  strong,  horses  fleet,  and  Yulah  cunning 
as  the  very ." 

His  confidence  in  himself  inspired  them  with  confi- 
dence in  him,  and  at  the  time  appointed  they  were  in  his 
carriage,  and  entering  the  narrow  road  which  lay  to  the 
rear  of  the  Maison  de  Sante,  and  more  than  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  distant.  That  portion  of  the  grounds  was  filled 
with  trees  and  shrubbery,  and  was  not  often  used  either 
for  convenience  or  pleasure  by  the  inmates  of  the  house, 
the  chimneys  of  which  were  by  daylight  just  perceptible 
through  the  tall,  thick  trees. 

Bee  could  see  nothing  in  the  darkness  except  the 
occasional  glimmer  of  a  light  moving  from  point  to  point, 
as  she  sat,  half-fainting  with  nervous  fear  and  impatience, 
while  the  clock  in  the  tower  told  first  the  hour  of  eleven, 
and  then  the  quarter,  and  then  the  half,  and  then, — 
surely  there  was  a  footstep  in  the  direction  of  the  gate, 
and  a  voice  she  recognized  as  Yulah's  called  softly, 
"  Michel,  Michel,  are  you  there  ?  Help  me  lift  her  ;  she 
is  dead,  or  fainted,  and  I've  brought  her  all  the  way." 

"  Can  one  of  you  hold  my  horses  ?"  Michel  asked,  and 
in  an  instant  Beatrice  was  at  their  heads,  patting,  and 
caressing,  and  talking  to  them  in  the  language  all  brutes 
recognize,  whether  in  English  or  German,  while  Mr. 
Morton  and  Michel  were  at  the  gate,  which  was  high 
and  locked,  and  over  which  they  lifted  bodily  a  figure 
which  lay  perfectly  motionless  in  the  arms  of  Michel, 
who  bore  it  to  the  carriage,  and  laid  it  down  gently,  but 
not  until  Beatrice,  with  a  woman's  forethought,  had  made 
sure  who  it  was. 

She  had  risked  too  much  to  be  disappointed  now,  and 
bidding  Michel  wait  a  moment,  she  struck  a  match  with 
which  she  had  prepared  herself,  and  holding  it  close  to 
the  inanimate  form  in  his  arms,  saw  the  face  she  knew, 
but  so  white,  and  worn,  and  still,  with  the  long,  curling 
lashes  resting  on  the  pallid  cheeks,  where  tears  and  suf- 
fering had  left  their  traces  in  dark,  purplish  rings,  that 
with  a  gasping  cry  she  said:  "  Oh,  Theo,  it's  Rossie, 
but  dead;  I  am  sure  she  is  dead." 


368  THE    ESCAPE. 

"  Now,  Michel,  drive  for  your  life  !"  Yulah  exclaimed, 
as  she  sprang  to  the  box  beside  him,  after  having  seen 
Rossie  carefully  lifted  into  the  carriage,  where  she  lay 
supported  mostly  by  Mr.  Morton,  though  her  head  was 
in  Beatrice's  lap,  and  Beatrice's  hands  were  busy  unfas- 
tening the  water-proof  hood,  and  her  tears  were  flowing 
like  rain  on  the  face  which,  even  in  the  darkness,  looked 
ghostly  white  and  corpse-like. 

The  manner  of  escape  had  been  as  follows  :  The  doc- 
tor had  died  that  afternoon,  and  as  his  disease  had  un- 
doubtedly been  cholera  in  its  most  malignant  form, 
great  consternation  had  prevailed  in  the  building  among 
the  employees,  some  of  whom  had  left,  and  most  of 
whom  kept  as  far  as  possible  from  the  wing  where  he 
had  died,  and  where  Rossie's  room  was  situated.  Yulah 
alone  was  fearless,  and  came  and  went  as  usual,  in  her 
capacity  of  attendant  in  place  of  Margotte,  who  had  fled 
to  the  town.  To  prevent  contagion,  it  was  thought  best 
to  bury  the  body  at  midnight,  with  as  little  ceremony  as 
possible,  and  thus  everything  was  in  confusion,  of  which 
Yulah  took  advantage.  She  was  very  popular  in  the 
house,  and  when  she  asked  permission  to  go  out  for  the 
evening  and  take  one  of  the  nurses  with  her,  it  was  readily 
granted  her,  with  the  injunction  that  she  should  wait  un- 
til her  patient  was  asleep,  or  at  least  quiet  for  the  night. 
To  this  she  readily  assented,  saying  that  she  would  lock 
her  in  the  room  so  as  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  her 
venturing  into  the  hall  while  the  body  was  being  re- 
moved. This  arranged,  her  next  business  was  to  prepare 
Rossie,  who  had  recently  sunk  into  a  state  of  despond- 
ency amounting  almost  to  insanity  inself,  and  who  spent 
most  of  her  time  sitting  or  standing  by  the  window,  with 
her  face  toward  the  setting  sun,  and  such  a  hopeless, 
weary  expression  upon  it  as  was  very  touching  to  see. 
She  was  standing  thus,  although  it  was  already  too  dark 
to  see  more  than  the  lights  in  the  distant  town,  when 
Yulah  came  hurriedly  in,  and,  bolting  the  door,  went  up 
to  her  and  said,  in  broken  English  : 

"  Cheer  up,  petite,  joy  and  glad  at  last.  They  are 
come  ;  they  here  for  you  !" 

"Not  Everard  !  Oh,  has  he  come?"  and  a  low  cry 
broke  from  Rossie's  quivering  lips. 


THE    ESCAPE.  369 

But  Yulah  stifled  it  at  once  by  putting  her  hand 
over  her  mouth,  and  saying  : 

"  Careful,  much  careful.  They  must  not  hear.  I  fix 
it  for  you,  and  you  be  still  and  listen." 

Very  rapidly  she  told  her  that  Mrs.  Morton  and  her 
husband,  whom  she  called  anything  but  Morton,  were  at 
the  inn  waiting  for  them,  and  detailed  her  plan  of  escape, 
to  which  Rossie  listened  in  a  kind  of  apathetic  way, 
which  showed  that  she  did  not  clearly  comprehend  what 
was  meant,  or  who  was  waiting  for  her.  Certainly  she 
never  thought  of  Beatrice,  but  she  understood  that 
all  she  had  to  do  was  to  obey  orders,  and  taking  the  seat 
which  Yulah  bade  her  take,  she  sat  as  immovable  as  a 
stone,  with  her  great,  black  eyes  following  every  move- 
ment of  her  nurse,  who,  alarmed  at  last  at  their  expres- 
sion and  the  rigid  attitude  of  the  figure,  which  scarcely 
seemed  to  breathe,  tried  to  rouse  her  to  something  like 
sense  and  feeling,  but  all  in  vain. 

One  idea  and  one  alone  had  possession  of  Rossie.  If 
she  would  escape  she  must  be  still,  and  she  sometimes 
held  her  breath  lest  she  should  be  heard  by  the  men, 
who,  at  the  far  end  of  the  long  hall,  were  passing  in  and 
out  of  the  room  where  the  dead  body  lay.  No  one  came 
near  No.  — ,  or  paid  any  attention  when,  about  half-past 
ten,  two  female  figures  emerged  from  the  door, — one 
wrapped  in  a  blue  waterproof,  with  the  hood  drawn 
closely  over  the  face ;  the  other  unmistakably  Yulah, 
who,  locking  the  door  behind  her  and  putting  the  key  in 
her  pocket,  hurried  with  her  companion  down  the  two 
long  flights  of  stairs,  and  through  a  back,  winding  piazza, 
to  the  rear  of  the  house,  where  the  door  she  had  un- 
fastened an  hour  before  stood  partly  open,  and  through 
which  she  went,  dragging  her  companion  after  her.  It 
was  literally  dragging  until  the  safety  of  the  thick 
shrubbery  was  reached,  when  Rossie  gave  out  and 
sank  down  at  5Tulah's  feet  unconscious,  and  fair  ted  en- 
tirely away.  To  add  to  Yulah's  alarm,  there  wa»  a 
sound  of  footsteps  near.  Somebody  was  in  the 
wood  besides  herself,  and  she  waited  breathlessly  until 
the  sound  ceased  in  the  distance,  as  the  person  or  per- 
sons, for  there  seemed  to  be  two,  hurried  on.  Then, 
taking  Rossie  in  her  arms,  she  made  what  progress  she 

16* 


370  GOING     HOME. 

could,  groping  through  the  dark  and  underbrush,  as  she 
dared  not  keep  to  the  path.  But  the  gate  was  reached 
at  last,  and  with  Michel's  strong  hands  to  help,  Rossie 
was  liften  over  it  and  into  the  carriage,  which  was  driven 
rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  nearest  railway  station. 


CHAPTER    L. 
GOING     HOME. 

HREE  weeks  after  the  events  recorded  in  the 
last  chapter,  the  City  of  Berlin  came  slowly 
up  the  New  York  harbor,  and  of  all  the  eager, 
expectant  faces  in  the  crowd  of  people  upon 
the  deck,  none  was  happier  or  more  eager 
than  that  of  Beatrice,  who,  now  that  her  work  was  accom- 
plished, and  Rossie  safe  in  her  possession,  had  given  her- 
self up  to  the  pleasures  of  her  honeymoon,  and  been  the 
merriest,  happiest,  most  loving  of  brides,  during  all  the 
voyage,  except  when  she  looked  at  the  white-faced  girl 
who  lay  in  her  berth  so  quietly,  or  sat  so  still  in  her 
chair  on  deck,  looking  out  upon  the  sea  with  eyes  which 
did  not  seem  to  see  anything  or  take  note  of  what  was 
passing. 

The  flight  from  Haelder-Strauchsen  to  the  nearest 
railroad  had  been  accomplished  in  safety,  and  there  they 
waited  a  few  hours  for  the  arrival  of  the  train,  which 
was  to  take  them  away  from  the  scene  of  so  much 
danger.  And  here  it  was  that  Beatrice  suggested  to 
Yulah  that  she  go  with  them  to  America,  either  as  Ros- 
sie's  maid  or  her  own. 

"I  Tiean  to  do  it  all  the  time,  then  I  see  what  come 
tc  lie, — the  villain, — and  I  take  much  care  my  poor  little 
one,  who  so  tired  and  scared  in  her  head,  but  who  come 
right  sure  when  the  boy  Everard  is  near,"  Yulah  said,  as 
she  stroked  the  thin, 'hot  hands,  folded  so  helplessly 
across  Rossie's  breast. 

Very  rapidly  she  communicated  her  intention  to  Michel, 


GOING     HOME.  371 

telling  him  at  the  same  time  the  full  particulars  of  Rossie's 
incarceration  in  the  Maison  de  Sante,  and  bidding  him  re- 
peat it  in  Hoelder-Strauchsen,  if  there  was  a  great  stir  on 
account  of  the  abduction.  Mr.  Morton  had  paid  his  bills 
at  the  inn,  and  said  that  he  should  not  return,  as  he  was 
going  to  a  point  higher  up  the  river,  so  no  suspicious 
could  be  awakened  there  of  anything  wrong  until  the 
alarm  was  given  at  the  house.  And  this,  in  all  human 
probability,  would  not  be  till  late  the  next  morning, 
when,  as  Yulah  failed  to  appear,  inquiries  might  be 
made,  and  the  door  of  No.  —  be  forced  open,  and  by 
that  time  the  fugitives  would  be  miles  and  miles  away, 
speeding  on  toward  the  west,  and  Michel  Fahen  would 
be  smoking  his  pipe  very  unconcernedly  at  the  door  of 
his  kitchen,  knowing  nothing  whatever  of  any  escaped 
lunatic,  or  of  Yulah  Van  Eisner's  whereabouts ;  know- 
ing nothing,  except  that  he  carried  some  English-talking 
people  to  a  railroad  station,  and  was  rewarded  for  it  by 
many,  many  thalers.  So,  of  whatever  commotion  or  ex- 
citement there  was,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morton  were  ignorant, 
and  kept  rapidly  on  their  way  until  the  continent  was 
crossed,  and  they  felt  safe  in  the  seclusion  of  crowded 
London.  Here  they  rested  in  lodgings  a  few  days,  and 
called  the  best  medical  advice  for  Rossie,  who,  since  re- 
covering from  the  dead  faint  in  which  she  had  been  more 
than  an  hour,  had  been  just  on  the  border  land,  where 
her  reason  seemed  hesitating  whether  to  go  or  stay. 
When  it  first  came  to  her  in  the  carriage  who  it  was  bend- 
ing so  lovingly  over  her,  she  had  burst  into  a  wild  fit  of 
weeping,  which  frightened  them  more  than  the  faint  had 
done.  Her  first  words,  when  she  did  speak,  were  : 

"  Everard,  where  are  you  ?  hold  my  hand  in  yours 
and  I  shall  not  be  afraid." 

At  a  sign  from  his  wife,  Mr.  Morton  took  Rossie's 
hand  in  his  and  held  it,  while  Bee  whispered  to  her, 
"Don't  talk  now,  darling.  It  is  all  right.  We  are 
going  home." 

How  much  Rossie  realized  of  that  rapid  journey, 
which  was  continued  day  and  night,  they  could  not  guess, 
for  she  never  spoke  again  or  showed  any  sign  that  she 
understood  what  was  passing  around  her,  except  to 
answer  their  questions  in  monosyllables  and  smile  so 


372  GOING     HOME. 

sweetly  and  trustfully  in  their  faces  when  they  told  her, 
as  they  often  did,  that  she  was  safe,  until  London  was 
reached,  and  they  laid  her  in  the  clean,  sweet  bed  in  the 
large,  airy  room  in  quiet  Kensington,  where  they  had 
taken  lodgings. 

For  several  days  they  staid  in  London,  and  then  took 
passage  for  home  in  the  City  of  Berlin,  where  everything 
was  done  to  make  the  voyage  comfortable  and  easy  for 
Rossie,  who  talked  but  little,  and  who,  when  she  did 
speak,  always  asked,  "  How  long  before  I  shall  see 
Everard?" 

It  was  only  the  Malson  de  Sante  and  the  incidents 
connected  with  it  which  had  any  power  to  excite  or  even 
interest  her.  With  regard  to  everything  else,  except 
Everard,  she  was  silent  and  indifferent,  asking  no  ques- 
tions, and  even  taking  Beatrice's  marriage  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  never  offering  a  comment  upon  it.  But 
when  at  last  America  was  in  sight  and  they  were  coming 
up  the  harbor,  she  roused  from  her  apathy  and  went  up 
on  deck  with  the  others,  and  sat  in  her  chair,  with  a 
bright  flush  on  her  cheeks  and  a  sparkle  in  her  eyes  which 
made  them  as  bright  as  stars.  She  was  looking  for 
Everard,  and  trying  to  make  him  out  in  the  group  of 
men  waiting  on  the  distant  wharf  for  the  boat. 

"  I  must  tell  her,"  Bee  thought;  and  sitting  down  be- 
side her,  she  said  :  "  Darling,  I  know  you  expect  Ever- 
ard to  meet  you,  but  he  is  not  here.  He  did  not  even 
know  we  were  going  for  you,  and  we  would  not  tell  him 
for  fear  we  might  fail,  and  then  he  would  feel  worse 
than  ever.  But  he  is  in  Rothsay,  and  will  be  so  glad  to 
get  his  dear  little  girl  once  more.  Don't  cry,"  she 
added,  as  the  great  tears  gathered  in  Rossie's  eyes  and 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  "  We  meant  it  for  the  best,  and 
you  shall  see  him  soon,  very  soon.  We  will  go  on 
to-night,  if  you  think  you  can  bear  it.  Are  you  strong 
enough  ?" 

"  Yes,  go  on, — quick, — fast,  just  as  we  came  through 
Europe.  I  want  to  see  Everard,"  Rossie  whispered,  and 
so  they  went  on  that  night  in  the  express  which  left  for 
Pittsburg,  from  which  city  a  telegram  was  forwarded  to 
Lawyer  Russell,  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morton 
would  be  in  Rothsay  on  the  late  train. 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE.  373 
CHAPTER   LI. 

BKEAKING  THE  NEWS   AT  THE  FOKKEST  HOUSE. 


WILD  storm  was  sweeping  over  Southern 
Ohio  that  November  night,  and  nowhere  was 
it  wilder  or  more  violent  than  in  Rothsay, 
where  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  ere  it 
reached  the  ground  was  taken  up  by  the 
wind  and  driven  in  blinding  sheets  through  the  deserted 
streets.  But  wild  as  the  storm  was  in  the  village,  it 
seemed  wilder  still  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Forrest  House, 
which  fairly  shook  on  its  solid  foundations  with  the 
force  of  the  tempest.  Tree  after  tree  was  blown  down, 
shrubs  were  uprooted,  and  the  fanciful  summer-house 
which  the  doctor  had  erected  on  the  spot  where  Rossi e 
used  to  tend  and  water  her  geraniums  and  fuchsias,  went 
crashing  down,  a  heap  of  ruins,  while  within,  in  the  most 
costly  and  elegant  chamber,  a  fiercer  storm  was  raging 
between  a  soul  trying  to  free  itself  from  its  prison  walls 
of  clay  and  the  body  which  struggled  so  hard  to  re- 
tain it. 

Josephine  had  not  improved,  as  at  one  time  it  was 
thought  she  might.  The  secret  which  she  held  and  the 
loss  of  the  letter  had  worn  upon  her  terribly,  and  the 
constant  dread  of  some  impending  evil  had  produced  a 
kind  of  brain  fever,  and  for  days  her  life  had  been  in 
imminent  danger,  and  the  doctor  had  staid  by  her  con- 
stantly, marveling  at  the  strangeness  of  her  talk,  and 
wondering  sometimes  if  it  were  possible  that  she  could 
have  become  possessed  of  the  secret  which  at  times  filled 
even  him  with  horror  and  a  haunting  fear  of  what  might 
come  upon  him  should  his  guilt  be  known.  But  Jose- 
phine could  have  no  knowledge  of  his  crime.  Van 
Schoisner  was  safe  as  the  grave  so  long  as  the  money  was 
paid,  as  it  would  continue  to  be,  for  he  had  set  aside  a 
certain  amount,  the  interest  of  which  went  regularly  to 
Haelder-Strauchsen,  and  would  go  so  long  as  Rossie  lived. 
This,  in  all  human  probability,  would  not  be  long,  for 


374  BREAKING     THE    NEWS 

Von  Schoisner  wrote  of  her  failing  health,  and  told  how 
bewildered  she  was  growing  in  her  mind.  Should  she  be- 
come hopelessly  insane,  he  would  be  almost  as  safe  as  if 
she  were  dead,  the  doctor  thought,  and  he  always  waited 
with  fierce  impatience  for  news  from  Austria,  when  he 
knew  that  it  was  due.  Von  Schoisner's  last  letter  had 
reported  her  as  very  weak,  with  growing  symptoms  of 
imbecility,  and  though  the  villainous  man  did  feel  a 
pang  of  remorse  when  he  remembered  the  sunny-faced 
girl  who  had  so  loved  and  trusted  him,  he  knew  he  had 
gone  too  far  to  think  of  retracing  his  steps.  There  was 
nothing  left  but  to  go  on,  and  as  his  life  at  the  Forrest 
House  had  not  proved  a  success  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  sell  it  and  go  to  Europe  to  live  permanently  as 
soon  as  Josephine  was  better.  He  could  hide  himself 
there  from  justice,  should  it  attempt  to  overtake  him, 
and  he  waited  anxiously  for  any  signs  of  amendment  in 
his  wife. 

She  did  seem  better  that  stormy  night,  when  even  he 
quailed  a  little  and  felt  nervous  as  he  listened  to  the 
roaring  wind,  which,  he  fancied,  had  in  it  the  sound  of 
human  sobbing.  She  had  slept  for  more  than  an  hour, 
and  when  she  awoke  she  was  quiet,  and  more  rational 
than  she  had  been  for  days.  But  there  was  a  look  of 
death  about  her  mouth  and  nose,  and  her  eyes  were  un- 
naturally bright  as  they  fixed  themselves  on  Agnes,  who 
sat  watching  her. 

The  doctor  had  taken  advantage  of  her  sleep  to  steal 
away  for  a  while,  and  in  the  dining-room  was  trying  to 
stifle  his  conscience  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco  and  the 
brandy,  of  which  he  drank  largely  and  often.  Thus 
Agnes  was  left  alone  with  her  sister,  whose  first  ques- 
tion, asked  in  a  whisper,  was  : 

"  Where  is  he, — the  doctor,  I  mean  ?" 

"  Gone  to  rest,"  was  the  reply,  and  Josephine  con- 
tinued : 

"  Yes,  let  him  rest  while  he  can.  It  will  soon  be  over, 
and  then  a  dungeon  for  him,  and  darkness,  and  blank- 
ness,  and  utter  forgetfulness  for  me  ;  Aggie,  that's  all  a 
fable  about  a  hereafter, — a  rag  of  mythology  which 
recent  science  has  torn  in  shreds.  We  do  not  go  some- 
where when  we  die;  we  perish  like  the  brutes.'* 


AT    THE    FORREST    HOUSE.  375 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  God  forbid  !"  and  falling  on  her  knees, 
with  her  hands  clasped  together,  Agnes  murmured  words 
of  prayer  for  the  soul  so  deluded  and  deceived. 

"  Hush,  Agnes,"  Josephine  said,  almost  fiercely. 
"There's  more  important  work  on  hand  just  now  than 
praying  for  one  who  does  not  want  your  prayers,  for 
even  if  there  be  a  hereafter,  it's  now  too  late  for  me,  and 
I  care  no  more  for  it  than  a  stone.  I  cannot  feel,  and 
it's  no  use  to  try.  If  there  is  a  hell,  which  I  don't  be- 
lieve, I  shall  go  there;  if  there  is  not,  then  I  am  all  right, 
and  the  sooner  I  am  like  the  clods  the  better;  but  I  must 
do  one  good  act.  Agnes,  do  you  think  Everard  would 
come  here  to-night  if  he  knew  I  was  dying, — for  I  am  ; 
I  feel  it,  and  I  must  tell  him  something,  which  will  per- 
haps make  him  think  more  kindly  of  me  than  he  does 
now.  Can  you  manage  it  for  me?" 

"  No,  no,"  Agnes  exclaimed.  "  He  would  not  come 
here  to-night  of  all  others,  because " 

She  checked  herself  suddenly,  and  then  added  : 

"  Listen  to  the  rain  and  the  wind  ;  did  you  ever  hear 
such  a  storm  ?" 

"Yes,  I  hear,"  Josephine  replied,  excitedly.  "It 
was  sent  for  me,  and  I  am  going  out  on  its  wings,  but  it 
seems  dreary  to  go  in  such  a  way.  Oh,  Aggie,  if  there 
should  be  a  hereafter, — but  there  is  not.  We  all  do 
sleep, — sleep.  But  Everard,  Everard, — I  must  sep  .am, 
or  maybe  you  would  tell  him  when  I  am  dead.  Lock 
the  door,  Aggie;  then  come  close  to  me  and  swear, — • 

swear  that  you  will  tell  him, — that  Rossie Oh, 

Agnes,  I  am  so  afraid  of  him, — the  doctor,  that  I  dare 
not  say  it  !"  and  on  the  white  face  there  was  a  look  of 
terror  such  as  Agnes  had  never  seen  before. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  in  her  mind  as  to  what  her 
sister  meant,  and  regardless  of  consequences,  she  bent 
down  and  whispered: 

"I  know, — I  understand.  Rossie  is  not  dead.  She 
is  c.live  and  coming  home." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  Have  you  seen  the  letter  ?" 
Josephine  almost  shrieked,  and  Agnes  replied: 

"  Yes,  I  found  it  under  the  carpet  long  ago,  just  after 
I  came  here,  but  I  did  not  suppose  that  you  had  ever 


376  BREAKING  THE  NEWS  AT  THE  FORREST  HOUSE. 

"I  had;  I  did;  I  put  it  there,"  Josephine  said,  gasp- 
ing out  the  story  of  her  having  taken  it  from  the  office, 
and  the  hiding  it  afterward.  "  And  you  found  it  ? 
Where  is  it  now  ?"  she  asked,  and  Agnes  replied  : 

"  I  gave  it  to  Miss  Belknap,  and  she " 

Agnes  did  not  finish,  for  Josephine  started  upright 
in  bed,  exclaiming  : 

"I  see;  I  know.  She  went  suddenly  to  Europe, — to 
find  Rossie  ;  tell  me  the  truth.  Has  she  found  her,  and 
is  she  coming  home,  and  what  will  it  be  for  him  ?" 

Agnes  knew  that  by  him  Dr.  JVlatthewson  was  meant, 
and  she  replied  unhesitatingly: 

"State  prison  for  him  and  poverty  for  yon." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Poverty,  disgrace,  State  prison  for 
life,  and  how  soon  ?  Tell  me  how  soon  ?  He  might 
have  time  to  fly,  for  I, — I, — he  is  not  good,  but  I'd  rather 
he  did  not  go  to  prison.  He  is  my  husband,  you  know. 
How  soon  ?  Tell  me  truly." 

"  To-night, — now, — the  train  is  due  and  overdue.  I 
do  not  believe  he  can  get  away.  I  think  he  is  watched. 
Lawyer  Russell  knows, — not  Everard  yet;  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Morton  are  coming  to-night  with  Rossie,"  Agues 
said,  rapidly  ;  and  the  next  moment  a  wild  shriek  rang 
through  the  house,  which  Dr.  Matthewson  heard  above 
the  storm,  and  he  came  reeling  up  the  stairs  from  his 
brju.  }y  and  cigars,  but  was  sobered  at  once  when  he 
found  his  wife  in  the  most  horrible  fit  he  had  ever  wit- 
nessed. 

When  it  was  over,  and  she  became  conscious  again, 
it  was  pitiable  to  see  how  hard  she  tried  to  speak  and 
warn  him  of  his  danger,  but  could  not,  for  the  power  of 
utterance  was  gone,  and  she  only  gave  forth  inarticulate 
sounds  which  he  could  not  comprehend  any  more  than 
he  could  understand  what  had  affected  her  so  strangely. 
It  was  in  vain  that  he  appealed  to  Agnes,  who  was  whiter 
if  possible  than  her  sister,  and  trembling  from  head  to 
foot.  She  was  sworn  to  secrecy, — and  if  she  had  inad- 
vertently said  to  Josephine  things  which  she  ought  not, 
she  must  keep  silence  before  the  doctor,  and  bear  the 
glance  of  the  eyes  which  looked  so  imploringly  at  her, 
and  seemed  about  to  leap  from  their  sockets  when  she 
shook  her  head  in  token  that  she  could  not  tell.  There 


BREAKING     THE    NEWS    TO    EVEEARD.       377 

were  flecks  of  blood  and  foam  about  the  pallid  lips,  and 
drops  of  sweat  upon  the  face  and  hands,  the  latter  of 
which  beat  the  air  hopelessly  as  the  dying  woman  tried 
to  speak.  At  last,  when  they  had  no  more  power  to 
move,  they  dropped  helplessly  upon  the  bed,  and  the 
white,  haggard  face  grew  whiter  and  more  haggard  as  she 
lay  with  ears  strained  to  catch  the  sound  for  which  she 
listened  so  intently,  and  which  came  at  last  in  a  shrill, 
prolonged  whistle,  which  was  distinctly  heard  in  the 
pauses  of  the  abating  storm,  as  the  train  so  long  delayed 
swept  through  the  town.  Then,  summoning  all  her  re- 
maining strength  for  one  last  great  effort,  Josephine 
raised  her  arm  in  the  air,  and  motioning  to  the  door, 
said  to  her  husband  in  a  voice  which  was  to  sound  in  his 
ears  through  many  years  to  come  : 

"  Doomed, — doomed, — fl " 

She  could  not  finish  and  say  "  fly,"  as  she  wished  to 
do,  for  the  word  died  away  in  a  low,  gurgling  moan  ; 
the  white  foam  poured  again  from  lips  and  nose,  and 
when  the  convulsions  ceased  and  the  distorted  features 
resumed  their  natural  look,  the  soul  had  gone  to  meet  its 
God. 


CHAPTER    LIL 
BREAKING  THE  NEWS  TO  EVERARD. 

T  was  an  hour  behind  the  usual  time  when  the 
train  from  the  north  stopped  for  a  moment 
at  Rothsay,  and  four  people,  or  rather  three, 
stepped  out  into  the  storm,  and  hurried  to 
the  shelter  of  the  carriage  waiting  for  them. 
The  fourth,  whose  face  was  carefully  hidden  from  sight, 
was  carried  in  the  strong  arms  of  Yulah,  and  held  like 
a  child  until  Beatrice's  house  was  reached,  where  it  was 
taken  at  once  to  the  room  which  Rossie  used  to  occupy, 
when  visiting  at  Elm  Park.  Rossie  was  very  tired  and 
very  weak,  both  in  body  and  mind,  but  had  not  seemed 
at  all  excited  during  the  journey  from  New  York  until 


378      BREAKING    THE    NEWS     TO    EVERARD. 

Rothsay  was  reached,  and  she  was  in  the  carriage  riding 
along  the  old  familiar  road  she  had  once  thought  she 
should  never  see  again.  Then  she  roused  from  her 
apathy,  and  sitting  upright  looked  eagerly  out  through 
the  driving  rain  toward  the  Forrest  House,  which  lay  to 
their  right,  and  seemed  to  blaze  with  lights,  as  the  startled 
servants  moved  rapidly  from  room  to  room, — for  it  was 
just  then  that  the  soul  had  taken  wing  and  was  on  its 
flight  to  the  world  untried. 

"Look,  look  !"  she  said,  "so  many  lights  in  the  old 
home,  as  if  to  welcome  me  back.  Is  Everard  there  wait- 
ing for  me  ?" 

"  No,  Rossie,"  Beatrice  said.  "  We  are  not  going 
there  to-night.  I  thought  it  best  to  bring  you  home 
with  me  until  you  have  seen  Everard." 

There  was  a  little  sigh  of  disappointment,  and  then 
Rossie  laid  her  head  on  Yulah's  arm,  arid  did  not  speak 
again  until  she  was  on  the  soft  bed  in  the  blue  room  at 
Elm  Park,  where,  when  Bee  asked  her  how  she  felt,  she 
whispered  :  "  So  happy  and  glad,  because  I  shall  see 
him  in  the  morning ;  send  for  him  very  early." 

And  when  the  morning  came  a  message  was  dis- 
patched to  Everard  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Morton  had  returned  and  wished  to  see  him  immediately. 
But  another  message  had  found  its  way  to  the  office 
before  this  one,  for  knots  of  crape  were  streaming  in  the 
November  wind  from  every  door-knob  at  the  Forrest 
House,  and  the  village  bell  was  tolling  in  token  that 
some  soul  had  gone  to  the  God  who  gave  it. 

In  his  office  Everard  sat  listening  to  the  bell,  every 
stroke  of  which  thrilled  him  with  a  sensation  of  some- 
thing like  dread,  as  if  that  knell  of  death  were  in  some 
way  connected  with  himself.  Who  was  it  dead  that  day 
that  the  bell  should  clamor  so  long,  and  would  it  never 
strike  the  age,  he  asked  himself,  just  as  the  door  opened 
and  Lawyer  Russell  came  in,  flurried  and  excited,  and 
red  and  white  by  turns  as  he  shook  the  rain-drops  from 
his  ove.-coat,  for  the  storm,  though  greatly  abated,  was 
not  over  yet. 

"  Who  is  dead  ?  Do  you  know  ?"  Everard  askod,  and 
Mr.  Russell  replied  : 

"  Yes,  Ned  ;  it  will  be  a  great  shock  to  you, — an  in- 


BREAKING    THE    NEWS    TO    EVERARD.      379 


fernal  shock, — though  of  course  you  were  all  over  any 
hankering  after  her  ;  but  it's  that  Matthewson  woman. 
She  died  last  night,  and  there's  about  forty  yards  of  crape 
flying  from  the  doors  up  there,  and  the  doctor,  they  say,  is 
actually  taking  on  to  kill,  and  blubbering  like  a  calf; 
but  we'll  fix  him.  You'll  see  ;  he's  watched  ;  there's  a 

po oh,  Lord  !  what  have  I  said,  or  come  near 

saying  ?" 

And  in  his  disgust  at  himself  for  having  nearly  let 
out  the  secret  before  the  time,  the  lawyer  retreated  into 
the  adjoining  room,  leaving  Everard  alone  to  meet  what 
had  been  a  terrible  shock  to  him,  for  though  he  had 
heard  at  different  times  from  Agnes  of  Josephine's  ill- 
ness, he  had  never  believed  her  dangerous  ;  and  now  she 
was  dead  ;  the  woman  he  once  fancied  that  he  loved. 
There  were  great  drops  of  sweat  about  his  mouth  and 
under  his  hair,  and  his  lips  quivered  nervously  while, 
human  as  he  was,  there  came  over  him  with  a  rush  the 
thought  that  now  indeed  he  was  free  in  a  way  which  even 
Rossie  would  have  recognized  had  she  been  alive.  But 
Rossie,  too,  was  dead  ;  his  freedom  had  come  too  late. 

"Everybody  is  dead,"  he  whispered,  sadly,  while 
hot  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks, — 
tears,  not  for  the  woman  at  the  Forrest  House,  for  whom 
the  bell  kept  steadily  tolling,  but  for  the  dear  little  girl 
dead,  as  he  believed,  so  far  away,  but  who,  in  reality, 
was  so  very  near,  and  even  then  asking  when  he  would 
come. 

"  Soon,  darling,  soon,"  Beatrice  said,  for  she  had  sent 
a  note  to  Everard,  and  the  messenger  was  at  his  office 
door  and  in  the  room  before  Everard  was  aware  of  his 
presence. 

"  Mrs.  Morton  at  home  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  took 
the  note  from  the  servant's  hand. 

"  DEAR  EVERARD,"  Beatrice  wrote,  "  we  came  home 
last  night  on  the  late  train,  and  I  am  so  anxious  to  see 
you,  and  have  so  much  to  tell.  Don't  delay  a  minute, 
but  come  at  once.  Yours,  BEE." 

She  had  something  to  tell  him  of  Rossie,  of  course,  and 
in  an  instant  he  was  in  the  street,  speeding  along  toward 


380      BREAKING    THE    NEWS    TO    EVERARD. 

Elm  Park,  and  glancing  but  once  in  the  direction  of  the 
Forrest  House,  when;  every  blind  was  closed,  and  where, 
through  the  leafless  trees,  he  could  seethe  flapping  of  the 
yards  of  crape  which  Lawyer  Russell  had  said  were 
streaming  from  the  doors.  For  an  instant  a  cold  shud- 
der went  over  him  as  if  he  had  seen  a  corpse,  but  that 
soon  passed  away,  and  when  Elm  Park  was  reached  he 
was  in  such  a  fever  of  excitement  that  the  sweat-drops 
stood  like  rain  upon  his  face,  which,  nevertheless,  was 
very  pale,  as  he  greeted  Beatrice,  and  asked  : 

"Did  you  hear  anything  of  her?  Did  you  find  tier 
grave,  or  see  any  one  who  was  with  her  at  the  last  ?" 

Beatrice  had  planned  everything  thus  far  with  great 
coolness  and  nerve.  She  had  kept  Rossie  quiet,  and 
made  her  very  sweet  and  attractive  in  one  of  her  own 
dainty,  white  wrappers,  and  arranged  her  beautiful  hair, 
which  had  been  kept  short  at  the  Maison  de  jSante,  but 
which  was  now  growing  in  soft,  curling  rings,  giving  to 
her  small,  white  face  a  singularly  young  expression,  so 
that  she  might  easily  have  passed  for  a  child  of  fourteen 
as  she  reclined  upon  the  pillows,  a  smile  upon  her  lips, 
and  an  eager,  expectant  look  in  her  large,  bright  eyes, 
turning  constantly  to  the  door  at  every  sound  which  met 
her  ear.  At  last  she  heard  the  well-remembered  voice  in 
the  hall  below  and  the  step  upon  the  stairs,  for  Bee  had 
after  all  lost  her  self-control,  and  in  answer  to  Everard's 
rapid  questions,  had  said:  "  We  did  hear  news  of  Rossie, 
and,  oh,  Everard,  don't  let  anything  astonish  or  startle 
you,  but  go  up  stairs  to  the  blue  room,  Rossie's  old  room, 
you  know." 

He  did  not  wait  to  hear  more,  but  darted  up  the  stairs, 
expecting,  not  to  find  his  darling  there  alive,  but  dead, 
perhaps,  and  thus  brought  back  to  him,  for  Bee  was 
capable  of  anything;  so  he  sped  on  his  way,  and  entered 
the  room  where  the  fire  burned  so  brightly  in  the  grate, 
and  flowers  were  everywhere,  while  through  the  window 
came  a  sudden  gleam  of  sun-light,  which  fell  directly  on 
the  couch  where  lay,  not  a  dead,  but  a  living  Rossie, 
with  a  halo  of  gladness  on  her  face,  and  in  her  beautiful 
eyes,  which  met  him  as  he  came  so  swiftly  into  the  room, 
pausing  suddenly  with  a  cry,  half  of  terror,  half  of  joy, 
as  he  saw  the  little  girl  among  the  pillows  raise  herself 


BREAKING    THE    NEWS     TO    EVERARD.       381 

upright  and  stretch  her  arms  towards  him,  while  she 
called  so  clearly  and  sweetly  :  "Oh, Everard,  I  am  home 
again,  and  you  may  kiss  me  once." 

There  was  a  sudden  movement  of  his  hand  to  his 
head  as  if  the  blow  had  struck  him  there,  and  then  he 
staggered  rather  than  walked  toward  the  white-robed 
figure,  which  sprang  into  his  arms  and  nestled  there 
like  a  frightened  bird  which  has  been  torn  from  its  nest 
and  suddenly  finds  itself  safe  in  its  shelter  again.  For 
an  instant  Everard  recoiled  from  the  embrace  as  if  it 
were  a  phantom  he  held,  but  only  for  an  instant,  for 
there  was  nothing  phantom-like  in  the  warm  flesh  and 
blood  trembling  in  his  arms  ;  nothing  corpse-like  in  the 
soft  hands  caressing  his  face,  or  in  the  eyes  meeting  his 
so  fondly.  It  was  Rossie  herself  come  back  to  him  from 
the  grave  where  he  had  thought  her  buried,  and  the  shock 
was  at  first  so  overpowering  that  he  could  not  utter  a 
word;  he  could  only  look  at  her  with  wildly  staring  eyes, 
and  face  w^hich  quivered  all  over  with  strong  emotions, 
while  his  heart  beat  so  loudly  that  every  throb  was  audi- 
ble to  himself  and  Rossie,  who,  as  he  did  not  speak, 
lifted  her  head  from  his  shoulder  and  said,  "  What  is  it, 
Everard  ?  Are  you  not  glad  to  have  me  home  again?" 

That  broke  the  spell,  and  brought  a  shower  of  kisses 
upon  her  face  and  lips,  while  he  murmured  words  of 
fondness  and  love,  and  poured  forth  question  after  ques- 
tion, until  Rossie  grew  bewildered  and  confused,  and 
whispered  faintly:  "I  don't  know;  I  don't  understand; 
I  am  very  tired;  ask  Beatrice,  she  knows;  she  did  it;  let 
me  lie  do'wn  again." 

He  saw  how  pale  and  weary  she  looked,  and  placed 
her  among  the  pillows,  but  held  her  hands  in  his,  while 
he  turned  to  Beatrice,  who  had  been  standing  just  out- 
side the  door,  and  who  now  came  forward. 

"Not  here;  Rossie  is  too  tired.  She  cannot  bear  it," 
sbe  said,  as  he  asked  her  what  it  meant,  and  where  she 
had  found  his  darling. 

Then,  drawing  him  into  the  adjoining  room,  she  told 
him  very  rapidly  all  the  steps  which  had  led  to  Ros- 
sie's  release  from  the  mad-house,  which  had  been  intended 
as  her  living  tomb.  And  as  he  listened  to  the  story, 
Everard'grew  more  and  more  enraged,  until  he  seemed 


382      BREAKING    THE    NEWS     TO    EVERARD. 

like  some  wild  animal  roused  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
fury  ;  and  seizing  his  hat,  was  about  rushing  from  the 
room,  when  Beatrice  detained  him  ;  and,  locking  the 
door  to  prevent  his  egress,  said  to  him  :  "I  know  what 
is  in  your  mind.  You  wish  to  arrest  the  doctor  at  once, 
but  there  is  no  haste  at  present.  Everything  has  been 
attended  to  for  you.  Ever  since  Lawyer  Russell  heard 
from  me  that  Rossie  was  alive,  the  Forrest  House  has 
been  under  close  espionage,  and  escape  for  the  doctor 
made  impossible.  Last  night,  in  all  that  storm,  officers 
were  on  guard,  so  that  he  could  not  get  away  if  he  had 
received  a  hint  of  what  has  been  done." 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  but  now, — now, — why  not  seize  him 
now  ?  Why  wait  any  longer,  when  I  long  to  tear  him 
limb  from  limb  ?"  Everard  exclaimed,  gnashing  his  teeth 
in  his  rage,  and  seeming  to  Beatrice  like  a  tiger  doing 
battle  for  its  young. 

"  Because,"  she  answered,  and  she  spoke  softly  now, 
"  we  must  hold  his  sorrow  sacred.  We  must  let  him  bury 
his  dead.  Surely  you  know  that  Josephine  died  last 
night  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  I'd  forgotten  it  in  my  excitement,"  he 
gasped,  and  his  face  was  whiter,  if  possible,  than  before. 
"You  are  right ;  we  must  not  molest  him  now,  but  have 
a  double  watch, — yes,  treble,  if  necessary.  He  must  not 
escape." 

There  was  terrible  vengeance  in  Everard's  flashing 
eyes  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room.  Dr.  Matthew- 
son,  though  he  were  ten  times  Rossie's  brother,  had 
nothing  to  hope  from  him  ;  but  for  the  sake  of  the  dead 
woman  lying  in  such  state  at  the  Forrest  House,  he  must 
keep  quiet  and  bide  his  time.  So,  after  another  inter- 
view with  Rossie,  whose  weak  state  he  began  to  under- 
stand more  plainly,  he  left  her,  and  schooled  himself  to 
go  quietly  back  to  his  office  and  transact  his  business  as 
if  lie  were  not  treading  the  borders  of  a  mine  which 
would  explode  when  he  bade  it  do  so.  At  his  request, 
the  number  of  officers  was  doubled,  and  every  possible 
precaution  taken  lest  the  victim  should  escape,  which  he 
did  not  seem  likely  to  do,  for  he  made  a  great  show  of 
his  grief,  and  sat  all  day  by  the  side  of  his  dead  wife, 
seeing  no  one  but  Agnes  and  those  who  had  the  funeral 


THE    ARREST.  383 

in  charge.  Thus,  he.  did  not  even  know  of  Beatrice's 
sudden  return,  which  took  the  people  so  by  surprise,  and 
was  the  theme  of  wonder  and  comment  second  only  to 
the  grand  funeral  for  which  such  great  preparations  were 
making,  and  which  was  to  take  place  the  third  day  after 
the  death. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 
THE  ARKEST. 

T  Elm  Park  the  utmost  secrecy  was  maintained 
with  regard  to  Rossie,  whose  presence  in  the 
house  was  wholly  unsuspected  by  any  one 
except  the  few  necessarily  in  the  secret.  The 
servants  knew,  of  course,  but  they  were 
trusty  and  silent  as  the  grave,  and  almost  as  eager  for 
the  denouement  as  Yulah,  herself,  who  had  personal 
wrongs  to  be  avenged,  but  who  seldom  spoke  to  any  one 
lest  she  should  betray  what  must  be  kept.  Two  or  three 
times,  after  dark,  she  had  stolen  up  to  the  Forrest  House, 
which  she  examined  minutely,  while  she  shook  her  fist 
and  muttered  in  execration  of  the  man  who,  she  heard, 
sat  constantly  by  his  wife,  with  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  as  if  he  really  mourned  for  the  woman  whom  he 
knew  so  much  better  than  any  one  else.  And  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  his  grief  was  genuine.  Her  beauty  had  daz- 
zled and  pleased  him,  and  something  in  her  selfish, 
treacherous  nature  had  so  answered  to  his  own,  that  in 
a  way  she  was  necessary  to  him,  and  when  she  went 
from  him  so  suddenly,  he  experienced  a  shock  and  sense 
of  loss  which  struck  him  down  as  he  had  never  before 
been  stricken, 

Agnes  wished  to  have  her  sister  taken  to  Holburton 
and  buried  by  her  mother.  But  Holburton  was  too  dem- 
ocratic a  town,  and  Roxie  Fleming's  bones  far  too  ple- 
beian for  his  wife  to  lie  beside,  and  so  he  bought  a  vacant 
lot  in  Rothsay,  and  gave  orders  that  no  expense  should 


384  THE    ARREST. 

be  spared  to  make  the  funeral  worthy  of  his  money  and 
position  as  the  richest  man  in  the  county. 

And  now,  at  the  close  of  the  third  day,  the  grand 
funeral  was  over, — and  grand  it  certainly  was,  if  a  costly 
coffin,  a  profusion  of  flowers,  twenty  carriages,  and  a 
multitude  of  lookers-on,  could  make  it  so  ;  but  how  much 
real  grief  there  was,  aside  from  what  Agnes  felt,  was  a 
matter  of  speculation  to  the  people,  who  went  in  crowds 
to  the  Forrest  House,  which  was  filled  from  kitchen  to 
parlor.  And  the  doctor  knew  they  were  there,  and  felt 
a  thrill  of  gratification  at  the  honor  paid  him,  though 
he  sat  with  his  head  bent  down,  and  never  once  looked 
up  or  seemed  to  notice  any  one.  Even  had  he  glanced 
about  him  at  the  sea  of  heads  filling  anterooms  and 
halls,  he  would  not  have  remarked  the  men,  who,  with- 
out any  apparent  intention,  were  always  in  the  fore- 
ground, just  where  they  could  command  a  view  of  the 
chief  mourner  in  the  imposing  procession  which  moved 
slowly  to  the  cemetery,  where  all  that  was  mortal  of 
Josephine  was  buried  from  sight.  At  the  grave  the 
doctor's  grief  took  a  demonstrative  form,  and  he  stood 
with  his  face  covered  with  his  hands,  while  his  body 
shook  as  if  from  suppressed  sobs,  and  when  a  low  cry 
escaped  Agnes  as  the  coffin  box  scraped  the  gravelly 
earth,  he  put  out  his  arm  toward  her  as  if  to  comfort  and 
reassure  her  ;  but  she  instinctively  drew  back,  with  a 
feeling  of  treachery  in  her  heart,  as  if  for  the  sake  of  the 
dead  sister  she  ought  to  warn  him  of  his  danger,  and  give 
him  a  chance  to  escape,  if  it  were  possible,  which  she 
doubted  ;  for,  though  she  did  not  know  just  what  the  plan 
was,  she  knew  how  closely  the  house  had  been  watched, 
and  recognized  in  the  crowd  the  men  whom  she  had  seen 
on  the  premises,  and  whose  office  she  rightly  conjectured. 
But  she  had  sworn  to  keep  the  secret,  and  so  her  lips 
were  sealed,  and  she  never  uttered  a  word  as  they  drove 
back  to  the  house,  where  she  went  directly  to  her  room, 
and  on  her  knees  begged  forgiveness  if  she  were  doing  a 
wrong  to  the  unsuspecting  man,  who,  all  unconscious  of 
peril,  went  also  to  his  own  room  to  draw  what  consola- 
tion he  could  from  the  fumes  of  his  best  cigars  and  the 
poison  of  his  brandies. 

And  so  he  was  as  surely  doomed  as  if  the  manacles 


THE    ARREST.  385 

were  already  upon  his  hands,  and  the  prison  walls  around 
him.  In  the  hall  below  there  was  the  sound  of  voices  in 
low  consultation,  Everard's  voice,  and  Lawyer  Russell's, 
and  the  officers  of  justice,  who  had  taken  possession  of 
the  house  and  locked  every  door  below  to  shut  off  all 
means  of  escape.  In  the  kitchen  the  astonished  and 
frightened  servants  were  crowded  together,  asking  each 
other  what  it  meant  and  what  was  about  to  happen,  but 
not  one  of  them  dared  to  move  after  the  officers  com- 
manded that  they  keep  quiet,  whatever  might  occur. 
Then,  up  the  stairs  came  the  two  strange  men,  with 
Everard  and  Mr.  Russell  following  close  behind,  and  on. 
through  the  hall  to  the  door  of  the  doctor's  room.  It 
was  a  little  ajar,  and  he  heard  their  footsteps,  and  half 
rose  to  meet  them  as  they  stepped  across  the  threshold. 
But  when  he  saw  Everard's  white,  set  face,  and  saw  how 
excited  Lawyer  Russell  seemed,  there  flashed  over  him  an 
inkling  of  the  truth,  and  when  the  foremost  of  the  of- 
ficers advanced  toward  him,  and  laying  his  hand  on  his 
arm,  arrested  him  for  perjury,  he  felt  sure  that  the  des- 
perate game  he  had  been  playing  had  ended  in  disgrace 
and  defeat.  But  he  was  too  proud  to  manifest  any 
emotion  whatever.  If  his  revolver  had  been  in  his  pock- 
et, where  he  usually  carried  it,  he  would  have  used  it 
unhesitatingly,  but  it  was  not.  He  had  no  means  of  de- 
fense, and  in  as  natural  a  tone  of  voice  as  he  could 
command,  he  asked  what  they  meant,  and  on  what  ground 
the  arrest  was  made  ;  how  had  he  perjured  himself,  and 
when? 

"  When  you  swore  that  Rossie  was  dead,  and  knew 
that  it  was  false,  and  that  she  was  incarerated  in  a  mad- 
house where  you  put  her,  you  villain  !  Rossie  is  not 
dead  ;  she  is  here  in  town, — at  Elm  Park,  and  all  your 
infernal  rascality  is  known,"  Everard  burst  out,  for  he 
could  restrain  himself  no  longer,  and  he  felt  a  thrill  of 
triumph  when  he  saw  how  white  the  doctor  grew,  and 
how  for  a  moment  he  tottered  as  if  he  would  fall. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  get  away  ;  he  merely  said  : 
"  Rossie  here  ?  Rossie  alive  ?  Take  me  to  her.  I 
must  see  her.  Gentlemen,  there  is  some  mistake,  which 
can  be  cleared  up  if  only  I  can  see  her.  I  beg  of  you, 
take  me  to  her." 

17 


886  THE    ARREST. 

But  his  request  was  not  granted.  He  was  a  prisoner, 
and  all  resistance  was  vain.  Cold  and  pallid,  and  seem- 
ingly indifferent,  he  did  just  what  they  bade  him  do,  and 
went  with  them  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  house  he 
was  never  to  enter  again.  On  the  piazza  outside  they 
encountered  a  strange  woman,  who  threw  herself  directly 
in  the  prisoner's  way,  and  shrieked  into  his  ear  : 

"It  bees  you,  Dr.  Matthewson.  I  knows  you,  sure, 
and  I  has  the  revenge.  I  finds  her  there  in  Haelder- 
Strauchsen,  and  sends  the  letter  here  to  him  (pointing  to 
Everard),  and  the  lady,  Madame  Morton.  She  comes 
and  I  gets  her  away,  and  you  into  the  conciergerie, — ha, 
ha  !  What  does  you  think  now  of  the  tragic  queen  ?" 
and  sl.e  snapped  her  fingers  in  his  face,  which  was  deadly 
white,  and  livid  in  spots  as  he  recoiled  from  her,  ex- 
claiming : 

"  Yulah  !  betrayed  by  you  !" 

"  Yes,  me.  I  swore  it.  I's  glad  to  be  revenge," 
she  cried,  and  was  going  on  with  more  abuse  when  the 
officer  stopped  her,  and  hurried  the  doctor  away  to  a 
place  of  safety,  whore  a  close  guard  was  placed  over 
him,  and  he  was  left  alone  with  his  wretched  thoughts. 

It  did  not  take  long  for  the  news  to  spread  over  the 
town,  for  secrecy  was  no  longer  necessary,  and  never  had 
there  been  such  wild  excitement  in  Rothsay.  That  Ros- 
sie  Hastings  had  been  alive  all  this  time,  and  buried  in 
a  mad-house,  while  her  brother  enjoyed  her  property, 
seemed  almost  incredible,  but  there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  it,  for  old  Axie  had  seen  her,  and  talked  with  her  face 
to  face,  and  in  their  fury  a  mob,  preceded  by  the  old 
negress,  assembled  in  the  streets,  and  surrounding  the 
building  where  the  doctor  was  confined,  demanded  the 
prisoner,  that  they  might  wreak  vengeance  on  him  then 
and  there. 

Order  was,  however,  soon  restored,  and  the  wretched 
man  was  left  in  quiet  to  think  over  his  wicked  past,  and 
to  dread  the  future,  which  he  knew  had  no  hope  for  him. 
His  sin  had  found  him  out,  and  though  he  had  not  con- 
science enough  to  be  much  troubled  with  remorse,  his 
j>ride  and  self-love  were  cruelly  wounded,  and  he  writhed 
in  the  anguish  of  bitter  mortification  and  rage. 


TELLING    THE    TRUTH    TO    ROSSIE.         387 
CHAPTER    LIV. 

TELLING  THE  TEUTH  TO   KOSSIE. 

» 

OSSIE  had  asked,   on  her  voyage  home,  who 
lived   at  the  Forrest  House,  and   had   been 
simply  told   that  Josephine  was   there  still, 
but  no  mention  had  been  made  of  the  unnatu- 
ral marriage    lest   it   should   excite  her  too 
much.     Now,  however,  it  was  desirable  that  she  should 
know  the  truth,  in  part,  at  least,  for  her  testimony  would 
be  necessary  when  the  trial  came  on.     So  Everard  told  it 
to  her  a  few  days   after  the   arrest,  when  she  seemed 
stronger  than  usual,  and  able  to  bear  it. 

She  had  been  steadily  improving  since  Rothsay  was 
reached,  though  she  talked  but  little,  and  was  most  of 
the  time  so  absorbed  in  thought  that  she  did  not  always 
hear  when  spoken  to,  or  answer  if  she  did.  She  heard, 
however,  when  Everard  came,  and  recognized  his  step 
the  moment  he  touched  the  piazza,  and  her  pale  face 
would  light  up  with  sudden  joy  and  her  large  eyes  glow 
like  coals  of  fire  ;  but  since  their  first  interview  she  had 
not  suffered  him  to  kiss  her,  or  even  to  hold  her  hands  in 
his  as  he  sat  and  talked  to  her.  Josephine  living  was 
a  bar  between  them  still,  and  Everard  guessed  as  much, 
and  told  her  at  last  that  Josephine  had  died  on  the  very 
night  of  her  return  to  Rothsay.  She  was  sitting  in  her 
easy-chair,  with  her  head  resting  upon  a  pillow,  and  her 
little  white,  thin  hands  held  tightly  on  her  lap,  as  if 
afraid  of  the  masculine  fingers  beating  restlessly  upon 
the  arm  of  her  chair.  But  when  she  heard  of  Josephine's 
death,  her  hands  involuntarily  unlocked  and  crept  toward 
the  restless  fingers,  which  caught  and  held  them  fast 
while  Everard  went  on  very  slowly  and  cautiously  to  tell 
her  the  rest  of  the  story, — the  part  which  involved  her. 
brother,  whose  name  he  had  not  before  mentioned  to 
her.  At  first  she  listened  breathlessly,  with  parted  lips 
and  wide-open  eyes,  which  almost  frightened  him  with 
their  expression  of  wonder,  and  surprise,  and  incredulity. 


388         TELLING     THE    TRUTH    TO    ROSSIE. 

"  Everard, — Everard  !"  she  gasped,  "  you  are  not 
telling  me  the  truth  ?  Say  you  are  not.  I  would  almost 
rather  have  died  in  that  dreadful  place  than  know  my 
brother  did  this.  Surely  it  is  not  true  ?" 

"  Yes,  true  in  every  particular,"  Everard  replied, 
softening  now  as  much  as  possible  what  he  had  still  to 
tell  of  the  man  whose  trial  would  come  on  very  soon, 
and  for  whom  there  was  no  escape. 

"Couldn't  you  save  him,  Everard,  if  you  should  try? 
Couldn't  I  do  something  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,  Rossie,"  he  answered.  "You  could  not  save 
him,  and  ought  not  if  you  could.  Men  like  him  must  be 
punished, — must  answer  for  their  misdeeds,  else  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  justice  or  protection  for  any  one.  You 
are  not  angry  with  me,  Rossie  ?"  he  continued,  as  she 
drew  her  hand  from  his  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"No,  not  angry;  only  it  is  all  so  very  horrible,  and 
brings  the  buzzing  back,  and  the  confusion,  and  I  hardly 
know  who  I  am,  or  who  you  are,  or  what  it's  all  about, 
only  you  must  go  away.  I  can't  hear  any  more,"  she 
said,  wearily;  and  after  that  there  were  days  and  weeks 
when  she  lay  in  bed,  and  scarcely  moved  or  noticed  any 
one,  except  Everard,  whom  she  welcomed  with  her  sweet- 
est smile,  saying  to  him  always  the  same  thing  : 

"I  have  been  thinking  and  thinking,  and  praying  and 
praying,  and  I  suppose  it  is  right,  but  oh  !  I  am  so 
sorry." 

Everard  knew  that  her  mind  was  dwelling  upon  the 
miserable  man,  who,  when  told  of  her  condition  and  that 
the  trial  was  to  be  delayed  till  she  was  able  to  give  her 
testimony,  had  saicl: 

"  No  need  of  that.  I  don't  want  Rossie  dragged 
into  the  court  to  swear  against  me.  I  know  more  than 
she  does  ;  nothing  can  save  nie.  I  shall  not  put  in  a 
defense  ;"  and  he  did  not. 

Coldly,  proudly,  and  apparently  unmoved,  he  sat  in 
the  criminal's  seat  and  listened  to  his  trial,  and  saw  the 
looks  of  horror  and  execration  cast  at  him,  and  saw 
Yulah's  face,  like  the  face  of  a  fiend,  sneering  exnltingly 
at  him,  and  heard  at  last  his  sentence  of  imprisonment 
with  the  utmost  composure  ;  and  no  one  who  saw  him  on 
his  way  to  his  new  home  would  have  dreamed  of  the  fate 


CONCLUSION.  389 

which  awaited  him.  Only  once  did  he  show  what  he  felt, 
and  that  was  when  the  prison  dress  was  brought  for  him 
to  put  on.  He  had  been  very  fastidious  with  regard  to 
his  personal  appearance,  and  he  flinched  a  little  and 
turned  pale  for  an  instant,  then  rallying  quickly  he  tried 
to  smile  and  affect  some  pleasantry  with  regard  to  the 
unsightly  garb  which  transformed  him  at  once  from  an 
elegant  man  of  fashion  into  a  branded  felon,  with  no 
mark  of  distinction  between  him  and  his  daily  compan- 
ions. 


CHAPTER  LV. 
CONCLUSION. 


FTER  the  trial  was  over,  and  the  doctor  safely 
lodged  in  prison  to  serve  out  his  length  of 
time,  Rothsay  gradually  grew  quiet  and 
ceased  to  talk  of  the  startling  events  which 
had  thrown  the  town  into  such  commo- 
tion. They  were  getting  accustomed  to  the  fact  that 
Rossie  was  alive  and  with  them  again.  She  had  ap- 
peared in  the  streets  with  Beatrice  two  or  three  times, 
and  many  of  her  old  friends  had  been  admitted  to  see 
her,  but  she  was  still  very  weak  in  body  and  mind,  and 
was  kept  as  quiet  as  possible.  Beatrice  had  made  a  short 
visit  with  her  husband  to  Boston,  but  had  returned 
again  to  her  own  home,  bringing  Trix  and  Bunchie  with 
her,  hoping  the  effect  on  Rossie  might  be  good.  And  it 
was,  for  from  the  moment  the  children  came  and  turned 
the  orderly  house  upside  down  with  their  play  and  prat- 
tle, she  began  to  improve  and  seem  much  like  the  Rossie 
of  old,  except  that  her  face  and  figure  were  thinner  and 
there  were  no  roses  on  her  cheeks,  and  there  was  always 
a  tired  look  in  her  eyes  and  about  her  mouth.  Of  her 
brother  she  never  spoke,  nor  of  Josephine  either  ;  neither 
had  she  ever  been  near  the  Forrest  House,  which,  with- 
out her  knowledge,  had  gradually  been  undergoing  a 


390  CONCLUSION. 

transformation,  preparatory  to  the  time  when  she  should 
be  equal  to  visit  it.  Both  Everard  and  Beatrice,  with 
Aunt  Axie  to  assist  them,  had  been  busy  as  bees,  remov- 
ing from  the  house  every  article  of  furniture  which 
either  the  doctor  or  Josephine  had  bought,  and  replacing 
it  with  the  old,  familiar  things  of  Rossie's  childhood. 

When  the  doctor  refurnished  the  house  he  had 
ordered  all  the  rubbish,  as  he  called  it,  to  be  stored 
away  in  the  attics  and  unused  rooms,  where  it  had  lain 
untouched  save  as  dust  and  cobwebs  had  accumulated 
on  it,  and  thus  it  was  comparatively  easy  for  the  rooms 
to  assume  their  natural  appearance,  except  so  far  as  they 
had  been  changed  by  new  windows  and  doors,  and  par- 
titions thrown  down  to  make  them  more  commodious. 
Could  Axie  have  had  her  way,  she  would  have  put  every- 
thing back  as  it  was,  and  not  have  left  a  vestige  of  the 
past,  but  Everard  had  the  good  sense  to  see  that  the 
changes  were  such  as  both  he  and  Rossie  would  like 
when  accustomed  to  them.  He  put  himself  with  Rossie, 
for  he  knew  he  should  live  there  with  her,  although 
nothing  definite  was  settled  by  word  of  mouth.  He  had 
a  plan  which  he  meant  to  carry  out,  and  when  the  house 
was  restored  to  itself,  and  the  same  old  carpets  were  on 
the  floor,  and  the  same  old  pictures  on  the  wall,  and  the 
chairs  in  his  father's  room  standing  just  as  they  stood 
that  day  when  Rossie  came  to  him  so  fearlessly  and 
asked  to  be  his  wife,  he  went  to  her  and  said  she  was  to 
ride  with  him  that  morning,  as  there  was  something  ho 
wished  to  show  her.  She  assented  readily,  and  was  soon 
beside  him  in  Beatrice's  phaeton,  driving  toward  the 
Forrest  House  grounds,  into  which  he  suddenly  turned. 

"  Oh,  Everard,"  she  cried,  as  her  cheek  flushed  scarlet, 
"where  are  you  going?  Not  there  ?  I  cannot  bear  it 
yet  It  will  bring  the  buzzing  back,  and  all  the  uncer- 
tainty. Don't  go,  please.  It's  like  a  haunted  place." 

But  Everard  was  firm,  and  quieted  her  as  well  as  he 
/could,  and  pointed  out  Aunt  Axie  standing  in  the  door 
just  as  she  used  to  stand  waiting  for  her  young  mistress, 
an. I  John  farther  on  in  the  stable-yard,  and  even  the  old 
dogs  barking  in  the  early  sunshine,  and  running  to  meet 
them  as  they  came  up.  It  did  not  seem  strange  nor 
haunted  now,  and  Rossie  made  no  resistance  when 


CONCLUSION.  391 

Everard  lifted  her  from  the  phaeton  and  carried  her  into 
the  house,  which  seemed  so  restful  and  home-like  that 
she  felt  all  her  old  morbid  feelings  and  fears  dropping 
from  her,  and  flitted  from  room  to  room  like  some  joy- 
ous bird,  until  she  came  to  the  judge's  chamber,  where 
she  paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  while  there  flashed 
upon  her  a  remembrance  of  that  day  which  seemed  so 
long  ago,  when  she  had  entertained  it  so  fearlessly,  and 
done  that  for  which  she  always  blushed  when  she  re- 
called it.  Passing  his  arm  around  her  Everard  drew  her 
into  the  room,  and  closing  the  door  made  her  sit  down 
beside  him,  while  he  said,  "  Rossi e,  you  surely  have  not 
forgotten  a  scene  which  took  place  here  more  than  six 
years  ago,  when  a  miserable,  sorely-tried  young  man  sat 
here  a  beggar,  with  a  secret  on  his  mind  far  worse  and 
harder  to  bear  than  prospective  poverty.  And  while  he 
sat  thinking  of  the  future,  and  shrinking  from  it  with  a 
dread  of  which  you  cannot  conceive,  there  came  to  him  a 
littl.i  sweet-faced  girl,  who,  in  her  desire  to  comfort  him 
and  give  back  what  she  believed  to  be  his,  asked  to 
I  e  his  wife,  without  a  thought  of  shame.  No,  Rossie, 
don't  try  to  get  away  from  me,  for  you  cannot.  I  shall 
keep  you  now,  forever,"  he  continued,  as  Rossie  tried  to 
free  herself  from  the  arm  which  only  held  her  closer, 
as  Everard  went  on  :  "In  one  sense  that  time  seems  to 
me  ages  and  ages  ago,  so  much  has  happened  since, 
while  in  another  it  seems  but  yesterday,  so  distinctly  do  I 
recall  every  incident  and  detail,  even  to  the  dress  and 
apron  you  wore,  and  the  expression  of  your  face  as  it 
changed  from  perfect  unconsciousness  to  a  sense  of  what 
you.  had  done.  You  came  to  me  a  child,  but  you  left  me 
a  woman,  whom  I  do  believe  I  would  even  then  have 
taken  to  my  heart  but  for  the  bar  between  us.  That  bar 
is  now  removed,  and  Rossie,  my  darling,  I  have  brought 
you  here  to  the  old  home,  and  into  the  very  room,  to 
answer  the  question  you  asked  me  then,  that  is,  if  you 
are  still  of  the  same  mind.  Are  you,  Rossie  ?  Do  you 
still  wish  to  be  my  wife  ?" 

He  had  her  face  between  his  two  hands,  and  was 
looking  into  her  eyes,  which  filled  with  tears  as  she  said 
to  him  :  "  Oh,  Everard,  yes,  yes.  I  have  wished  it  so 
much  when  it  was  wicked  to  do  so,  and  now  that  it  is 


392  CONCLUSION. 


not,  I  wish  it  still  ;  only  I  am  afraid  I  must  not,  for  there 
is  such  a  horrible  fear  before  me  all  the  time  which  I  can- 
not shake  off.  Day  and  night  it  haunts  me,  that  I  am 
not  all  right  in  my  brain.  I  saw  so  much  and  suffered 
so  much  that  I  can't  put  things  together  quite  straight, 
and  my  head  buzzes  at  times,  and  I  do  not  remember, 
and  am  even  troubled  to  know  just  who  I  am  and  what 
has  happened.  Oh,  do  you  think,  do  you  suppose  I  am 

going  to  be  a, a, "  She  hesitated,  and  her  lips 

quivered  pitifully  as  she  finally  pronounced  the  dreadful 
word,— "  fool." 

Everard's  laugh  was  something  pleasant  and  good  to 
hear,  it  was  so  long  and  loud. 

"Fool,  Rossie.  No.  You  are  only  tired  out  and 
must  have  the  perfect  rest  which  you  can  find  alone  with 
me,"  he  said, and  he  covered  her  face  with  kisses.  "And 
were  you  ten  times  a  fool,  I  want  you  just  the  same. 
And  you  are  mine,  my  own  precious  little  Rossie  who 
will  be  ray  wife  very  soon.  There  is  no  need  for  delay, 
I  want  you  and  you  need  me,  and  Beatrice  ought  to  go 
to  her  husband,  which  she  will  not  do  while  she  thinks 
you  need  her  care.  So  it  will  be  within  two  weeks  at 
the  farthest.  You  need  no  preparation,  just  to  come 
home, — though  we  will  go  away  farther  South  for  a 
while,  where  the  season  is  earlier  and  where  the  roses  will 
soon  come  back  to  these  pale  cheeks  and  vigor  to  the 
poor,  tired  brain." 

Rossie  let  him  arrange  it  all  as  he  pleased,  and  the 
wedding  took  place  two  weeks  from  that  day  in  Bea- 
trice's drawing-room,  without  parade  or  show,  for  both 
bride  and  groom  had  suffered  too  much  to  care  for 
publicity  now  ;  but  both  were  perfectly  happy,  and 
Kossie's  face  was  sweet  and  beautiful  as  are  the  faces  of 
Murillo's  Madonnas,  as  she  lifted  it  for  her  husband's  first 
kiss,  and  heard  him  say,  "  My  wife  at  last,  thank  God." 

There  was  a  trip  southward  as  far  as  the  mountains 
of  Tennessee,  where,  in  a  lovely,  secluded  spot  Rossie 
gained  so  rapidly  both  in  body  and  mind,  that  the  second 
week  in  May  was  fixed  upon  for  their  return  to  the  For- 
rest House,  where  Aunt  Axie  again  reigned  supreme,  and 
where  Agnes  had  found  a  haven  of  rest  at  last.  Bea- 
trice, who  had  gone  with  Trix  and  Bunchie  to  Boston, 


CONCLUSION.  893 

had  offered  Agnes  a  home  with  her  as  nursery  governess 
to  the  children,  but  Rossie  had  said  to  her  first,  "If  you 
can,  Aggie,  I  wish  you  would  live  with  ine.  It  will  make 
me  happier  to  have  you  at  the  Forrest  House,"  and  so 
Agnes  went  to  the  Forrest  House,  and  was  there  to  meet 
the  newly-married  couple,  when  they  came  back  one 
lovely  afternoon  in  May  to  take  possession  of  their  old 
house,  amid  the  pealing  of  bells  and  the  rejoicings  of  the 
people,  who  had  assembled  in  crowds  upon  the  lawn  in 
front  of  the  house,  where  Everard's  most  intimate  ac- 
quaintances had  arranged  a  grand  picnic,  to  which  all 
who  were  his  friends  and  wished  to  do  him  honor  were 
publicly  invited.  It  would  seern  as  if  everybody  was  his 
friend  or  Rossie's,  for  the  whole  town  was  out,  filling 
the  grounds,  which  were  beautifully  decorated,  while 
over  the  gateway  a  lovely  arch  of  flowers  was  erected 
with  the  inscription  on  it,  "  Welcome  to  the  rightful 
heirs." 

And  so,  amid  the  ringing  of  bells  and  the  huzzas  of 
the  crowd,  and  strains  of  sweet  music  as  the  Rothsay 
band  played  a  merry  strain,  Everard  and  Rossie  drove 
up  the  avenue  and  passed  into  the  house  where  they  had 
known  so  much  joy  and  sorrow  both,  and  which  here- 
after was  to  be  to  them  an  abode  of  perfect  peace  and 
happiness. 

There  was  a  dance  upon  the  lawn  that  night,  after 
the  hundreds  of  lamps  and  lanterns  were  lighted,  and 
people  came  from  afar  to  see  the  sight,  which  equaled 
the  outdoor  fetes  of  the  Champs  (TElysees,  and  were  con- 
tinued until  the  village  clock  chimed  twelve,  when,  with 
hearty  handshakes  and  three  cheers  for  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Forrest,  the  crowd  departed  to  their  respective  homes, 
and  peace  and  quiet  reigned  again  at  the  Forrest  House. 

And  now,  there  i.s  little  more  to  tell  of  the  characters 
with  whom  my  readers  have  grown  familiar. 

Dr.  Morton  is  still  in  Boston,  and  perfectly  happy 
with  Beatrice,  who  i.sthe  best  of  wives  and  step-mothers, 
idolized  by  husband  and  little  ones,  and  greatly  honored 
by  the  people,  notwithstanding  that  she  sometimes 
startles  them  with  her  independent  way  of  acting  and 
thinking. 

Yulah  is  at  the  Forrest  House  in  the  capacity  of  wait- 

17* 


394  CONCLUSION. 

ing-maid,  and  no  one  looking  at  her  usually  placid  Ger- 
man face  would  dream  of  the  terrible  expression  it  can 
assume  if  but  the  slightest  allusion  is  made  to  the 
wretched  man  who  in  his  felon's  cell  drags  out  his  mis- 
erable days,  with  no  hope  of  the  future,  and  nothing  but 
horror  and  remorse  in  his  retrospect  of  the  past.  Once 
or  twice  he  has  written  to  Rossie,  asking  her  forgiveness, 
and  begging  her  to  use  her  influence  to  shorten  his  term 
of  imprisonment.  But  Rossie  is  powerless  there,  and 
can  only  weep  over  her  fallen  brother,  whose  punishment 
she  knows  is  just,  and  who  is  but  reaping  what  he  sowed 
so  bountifully. 

In  course  of  time  Everard  heard  from  Michel  Fahen 
of  the  excitement  caused  by  Rossie's  escape,  of  the 
means  taken  at  first  to  trace  her,  and  of  the  indignation 
of  the  people,  and  the  invectives  heaped  upon  Van 
Schoisner  when  Michel  told,  as  he  was  finally  compelled 
to  do,  what  he  knew  of  Rossie's  unjust  detention  as  a 
lunatic.  It  is  more  than  six  months  now  since  Rossie 
came  home  a  bride,  and  in  that  time  no  cloud,  however 
small,  has  darkened  her  domestic  horizon  or  brought  a 
shadow  to  her  face.  The  house  has  been  refurnished 
from  garret  to  cellar,  and  is  seldom  without  guests,  both 
from  city  and  country,  while  the  village  people  are  never 
tired  of  taking  their  friends  to  see  the  beautiful  grounds, 
of  which  they  are  so  proud,  and  to  call  upon  the  fair  young 
matron,  on  whom  the  duties  of  wifehood  sit  so  prettily, 
and  who  is  as  sweet  and  innocent  as  in  the  days  when 
she  wore  her  white  sun-bonnet,  and  was  known  as  Little 
Rossie  Hastings. 


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Elegantly  Bound  in  Cloth,  Presentation  Style. 

EDITED  BY  THE  ABLEST  TALENT  THE  WOBLD   AFFORDS. 


This  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful  books  ever  published.  It  is  a  handy  book  of 
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and  one  matters  which  the  general  reader  would  like  to  understand  a  little  more 
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TO    AGENTS. 

No  book  was  ever  so  easy  to  sell  as  this  one.  As  a  rule,  encyclopaedias  and 
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heretofore,  they  have  been  in  too  many  volumes,  and  too  costly,  for  the  general 
reader  ;  but  here,  in  this 

ONE-VOLUME  ENCYCLOPEDIA, 

the  nail  has  been  hit  square  on  the  head,  and  a  book  is  published  in  one  volume,  at  a 
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&ST  SOLD  OXLY  BY  OUR  AUTHORIZED  SUBSCRIPTION  AGENTS. 
For  Terms,  Territory  of  Sale,  and  other  particulars,  address 

G.  W.  CARLETON  &  CO., 

Publishers,  Madison  Square,  New  York 


HOW  TO  SAVE  YOUR  DOCTOR'S  BILLS. 
HOW  TO  CURE  YOURSELF. 

BUY  THE  BEST  MEDICAL  BOOK  OF  THE  AGE ! 

JUST  PUBLISHED— ENTITLED 


And  Family  Medical  Adviser. 

By     J.     HAMILTON      AYERS,     A.M.,      M.D. 

A  remarkable  new  Medical  Book,  written  in  simple,  intelligent  language, 

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understand  and  profit  by  it.     The  work  embraces  every  possible 

subject.    See  the  following  extract  from  Table  of  Contents : 

GENERAL  DISEASES.— The  Skin.  The  Brain  and  Nerves.  The  Eye,  Ear, 
Nose,  Face,  Lips,  Mouth,  Jaws,  and  Teeth.  The  Throat  and  Windpipe.  The  Lungs 
and  Heart.  The  Abdominal  Cavity.  The  Urinary  and  Genital  Organs.  The  General 
System. 

DISEASES  OF  WOMEN.— Menstruation.— Physiology  and  Functions  ;  Diseases 
of  the  Menstrual  Function  ;  the  Womb  and  its  Diseases  ;  Pregnancy  and  its  Dis- 
orders ;  the  Breast  and  its  Diseases  ;  Confinement ;  Abortion  ;  Miscarriage. 

CHILDREN  AND  THEIR  DISEASES.— The  Management  of  New-born  Infants. 
—Diseases  of  Children. 

ACCIDENTS  AND  EMERGENCIES.— Household  Surgery.— Poisons  and  their 
Antidotes.  Hygiene.— Preservation  of  Health  and  Guide  to  Long  Life. 

COMMON  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED.— The  Toilet.— New  and  Valuable  Dis- 
coveries regarding  the  Preservation  of  Beauty  :  Valuable  Miscellaneous  Informa- 
tion ;  Old  Age,  its  Care  and  Diseases  ;  Observations  on  Death. 

THE  YOUTH  OF  BOTH  SEXES.— The  Duty  of  Parents  and  Guardians.— A 
Chapter  for  the  Especial  Pernsal  of  Youths  of  Understanding,  as  well  as  for  that  of 
Fathers  and  Guardians  ;  On  the  Relations  between  Man  and  Wife  ;  a  Chapter  for 
the  Newly  Married. 

MISCELLANEOUS.— Cookery  for  the  Sick  Room.  Indications  of  Disease  by 
Appearance,  &c.  ;  the  Temperaments  ;  Idiosyncrasy.  Medicines. — Their  Prepara- 
tion and  Doses ;  Prescriptions  ;  Receipts.  Botanical  Medical  Practice. 

SUBSTANTIAL      REASONS     WHY 

EVERY  FATHER  will  prize  this  Book,  for  it  will  teach  him  how  to  preserve  hla 

own  health,  or  cure  his  family,  when  sick. 
EVERY  MOTHER  will  find  in  this  Work  all  she  wants  to  know  about  her  own 

health,  and  how  to  nurse  and  rear  her  children. 
EVERY  SICK  PERSON  will  glean  from  these  pages  priceless  knowledge  of  how  to 

drive  away  disease  in  every  form. 
EVERY  NURSE  should  study  this  Book,  for  in  it  will  be  found  the  most  valuable 

rules  for  sick  chambers  that  have  ever  been  compiled. 

The  book  is  a  large,  elegant  bound  volume  of  six  hundred  pages, 
beautifully  printed,  with  oue  hundred  and  fifty  Illustrations. 


TO    AGENTS. 

t^-  THIS    BOOK   WILL   BE    SOLD   ONLY   BY    OUR    AUTHORIZED 
SUBSCRIPTION  AGENTS. 

For  Terms,  Territory  of  Sale,  and  other  particulars,  address 

G.     W.    CARLETON    &    CO., 

Publisliers,   Madison   Square,   New    York. 


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